Whatever Tomorrow Brings
by thewickednix
Summary: The final battle calls for sacrifices with unexpected consequences. --Bonding, snark and scowl. The whole H/D package.
1. Judgement Day

**Title: **Whatever Tomorrow Brings  
**Author:** thewickednix  
**Pairing:** Harry Potter / Draco Malfoy  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Categories:** Slash  
**Warnings: **Adult Language, Sexual Situations, Angst, Violence, Weirdness

**Summary:** The final battle calls for sacrifices with unexpected consequences.

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

**Author's notes: **Bonding!fic. I don't usually like them much myself, but then again, I don't usually like vampire!fics either, and I've written 80 000 words worth of those, so...

And yes, I have begun a new fic while still working on two others (-one with an approaching deadline! *panic*). Bad, _bad _author! …But I just can't help myself when my imagination runs off with me.

* * *

**Prologue:**

I never expected to live through the war. I had always imagined myself dying in the last battle, defeating Voldemort before falling to the glorious death of a true hero. I never wanted to see the aftermath of the war, let alone be forced to live in the mess. Perhaps I was a coward, but I thought I'd done enough. Through saving everyone else, did not I deserve some peace at last?

In the end, it was I who was saved. He saved me, in every aspect of the word.

Even if I did not realise it at the time.

* * *

**Chapter 1. Judgement Day**

"Harry, are you positive this is the right thing to do?"

Hermione looks over at me with concern, holding onto her wand desperately, trying to focus on me while she avoids the curses flying her way. A hex explodes into a stone beside her, and she is thrown to the ground. I move to help her but she gets up before I reach her, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears of anxiety and terror, her expression equal to the ones on everyone else's faces. That expression that tells not only of the horrors of today, but of those we've already lived through.

No one has been spared, no one has survived this far without enormous sacrifices, without leaving something or someone they loved behind. For some of us, the cost has been almost too great to bear. I lost my best friend, my mentor, and my godfather within the time span of three years. Hermione lost her husband a week into their marriage. The Weasleys have lost two sons and a daughter, and are still able to consider themselves lucky.

And only God knows how many more will be lost before this day is over. Something I don't prefer to think about right now, as I am ducking curses and trying to throw them back, doing anything in my power to move as unnoticed as possible around all the Death Eaters in the heat of the battle.

Out of the cauldron and into the fire. Towards my doom.

Swallowing loudly and trying to catch my breath, I answer Hermione with as much credibility as possible. "Yes, I am," I state clearly, proud of myself that my voice isn't shaking. This is not the time for uncertainty.

All around me I hear explosions, people shouting out curses, people screaming. More people dying. But I shut it out as I move, only concentrating on my own opponents, my own task.

Kill Voldemort. That is all I can do for anyone right now. The rest will be dealt with afterwards, though probably not by me.

My duty is to destroy Voldemort. But I do not expect to live through this battle. My obligations do not require it. Too many times have I fooled death and lived through a dead-end situation, and too many times have others had to die instead of me.

In truth, I am fed up with it all. My whole existence circling around something I never asked for, my status as the hero I never wanted to be.

When I go, I will be mourned, of course. People will go to my funeral and cry over my grave, pretend that they knew me and bond over the fond memories they share of the poor Chosen One. But they don't know me, the real me. So few even bother to try. All they need is the hero. Who fucking cares about the boy behind the scar?

No, I will not feel guilty for dying tonight. Those few who are left that really know me will get over it, rebuilding their lives as best as they can. I have nothing left to rebuild, nothing to return to.

And I am so sick of fighting.

Suddenly I am startled back from my reverie by a Death Eater I recognise as Dolohov, coming at me out of nowhere with an Avada Kedavra I barely manage to sidestep. I hear Hermione casting a hex and being left behind me, taking up the fight with Dolohov to let me continue. I do not dare to look behind me and confirm that she is still alive.

We are almost at the same numbers with the Death Eaters, and so the others are able to keep them busy as I look for Voldemort. I try to stay to the side, feeling like the worst coward ever as I hide away from the heat of the battle, trying to circle the battlefield in search of my true opponent.

But even that is not easy. The field is wide and smoky, and I can barely see ten feet before me, let alone navigate to where Voldemort is hiding behind his closest cohorts. The grass is high and the ground is muddy, and more than once I feel myself losing my footing. It is only when I duck a stray Confusing Curse that I finally fall, sliding onto my knees in the dirt, letting out a loud yelp as I go.

"Well, well. If it isn't little Harry Potter, and right at my feet too!"

The sickly sweet voice sends shivers up my spine. With dread I look up to find Bellatrix Lestrange looking down at me, her wand pointed straight at my chest.

"My lord will be so pleased to hear that it was I who--"

But the woman gets no further before a loud yell is heard:

"Avada Kedavra!"

I watch with mixed horror and fascination as the light goes out in Bellatrix's eyes, her mouth falling open in a surprised 'o', her legs giving in as she falls backwards in the grass.

"Potter, you stupid prick!" a cold voice cries out, violent hands gripping me and lifting me from the ground. Malfoy lets go of me as soon as I regain my footing, sneering at me as viciously as ever. "Try to stay alive, will you? At least until you kill the Dark Lord."

There is no compassion in his voice, no sympathy in his eyes. Not that I expected it. I fight the urge to spit back at him, and instead turn my back on the blond, running forward through the grass, trying to forget the image of Bellatrix's cold grey eyes, staring back at me.

Just like Sirius did before he fell behind the veil.

I stumble again, almost falling over a stone suddenly found in the mud, only to have my arm again grabbed by Malfoy's firm hands. "Focus, Potter," he commands harshly, evidently irritated by my lacking capacity to stay alive even crossing a field.

If Malfoy was any other man, I would say that his concentrated indifference has to do with the battle, or the fact that he just killed his only remaining relative. But since it is Malfoy, any excuse for his behaviour is useless. Throughout the fifteen months we have fought together, side by side, he has continued to treat me with the passive disdain he reserves for all of us whom are beneath him but whom he is forced to side with. Why he even joined our side at all instead of just running away is beyond me.

"There he is," Malfoy says quietly, forcing me to turn my attention towards three figures by the forest. A tall man in dark robes I don't have to look twice at to recognise as Voldemort, and two of his foremost followers, Avery and Carrow.

"Go around the edge of the forest and come up behind them. I'll attack from the front and divert their attention," the blond mutters, gesturing offhandedly for me to take off to the right. I'm reluctant to take orders from a former Death Eater, but unfortunately I have to admit that Malfoy knows a lot more of wartime strategy than I do. And with Hermione, Kingsley and Mr Weasley lost somewhere in the midst of the battle, I have no one else to ask for advice.

Hence I obey my one-time worst nemesis, taking off into the high grass to the right, trying to stay as low and invisible as possible. From the side I watch as Malfoy approaches the Death Eaters, shouting and casting hexes at a distance far to great. But the distraction works, causing Avery and Carrow to take defence and move away from Voldemort and towards their attacker.

I watch in awe as Malfoy takes Carrow down with a single spell, slightly jealous at the grace he manages to put into even a death strike. But Avery is not as easy to take down, and I see Malfoy throwing himself to the ground as he ducks under a Cruciatus.

Looking away, I keep running as quietly as I can over the soggy ground, trying to focus on my own task instead of the matter of Malfoy's survival. That is the least of my worries right now.

In the end, it is not how I imagined it. I have been forced to kill many men during the war, but I always thought that Voldemort's death would be special, exceptional in some way. That it would be the grand finale to what has been a horrendous war, a nightmare in all aspects.

The snakelike man has time to lift his wand against me, to cast an Avada Kedavra that barely misses my shoulder. But making a mistake, like any mortal man would, the great Tom Riddle is then distracted by a stray Stunning spell. So I take my chance, and I aim.

And he falls.

I feel the air leave my lungs, the strength leave my limbs. Voldemort is dead. It's over.

But the world does not stop. The sun does not burst through the thick layer of clouds to bathe the battlefield in sunlight and warmth. The rain does not wash away the heavy, metallic smell of blood.

We are not yet saved.

"Potter! Watch out!"

From somewhere behind me I hear Malfoy's voice, but it is too late.

"Scelero Profanus!"

The curse hits me violently in the back, pulling my legs out from under me, and I fall down onto my stomach in the dirt. But there is no immediate effect, and for a second I think I have been spared.

Then the pain begins. Slowly the burning, horrid sensation spreads, like Fiendfyre through my veins, tearing at my intestines, ripping at every nerve. I feel a feeble scream escaping me, as I grip my stomach in a desperate attempt to stop this feeling. But nothing prevents it, nothing aids this excruciating flame in my body. I scream for all that I am worth, writhing in the mud, unable to do anything else. I feel as if I am sinking into the dirt while being hauled up from the ground by my own skin.

"Potter! _Potter_, do you hear me?!"

A familiar voice sounds from somewhere afar, but I cannot recognise it through my own screams. Firm hands grab me, rolling me over so that I am lying on my back, forced to look up into the light. Through narrowed eyes I see a pale but dirty face I know I have seen before, but I still cannot name the person.

"Potter, goddammit!" the harsh, raw voice cries out, trying to keep me still. "Stop moving, or it'll spread faster!"

I don't know what 'it' is, and quite frankly I'm not in the presence of mind to care. But I still at the other man's command, feeling my last strength drain off me, feeling myself giving up.

_I'm going to die._

With the realisation comes the tears, overflowing in my eyes and running down my cheeks, blurring my sight. But someone slaps me hard in the face, and my vision clears for a second, letting me at last recognise the face in front of me.

"M-Malfoy…"

"No, you don't!" is the harsh response. "Don't you dare die on me now, Potter," he commands, moving around beside me, fumbling for something. He finds it, turning to watch me gravely for a second, as if making a decision, before he raises his left hand and lets a sharp silver blade run over his palm.

My eyes see only red.

I am too far gone to even question him. Feeling the life slowly slipping away from me I open my mouth to say my goodbyes, when a cool, damp hand lifts up my dirty one. The mere movement of my limb is so excruciating that I cry out, but Malfoy ignores it. He takes a deep breath and moves something over my palm, and it takes a moment for me to realise that it was the knife. I feel the blood flow over my hand, but I can't feel the wound through the rest of the pain in my body.

Malfoy lifts my hand, my palm facing him, and I scream again, writhing on the ground and cursing Malfoy for making my last moments even worse than they already are. But the git doesn't react to my plea, instead he lifts his bloody hand and presses it against mine. And I hear a whisper:

"_Nema minn vinr  
__  
eða smíða hann til minn líki,  
__  
minn ætt, minn blóð__eða minn nafn_."

The blood flows between our fingers, dripping down our wrists, blending between our palms. It feels as if cord has been created between our hands, a seam connecting our skins, and I'm certain I could not pull away if I wanted to. Something moves between our palms, something in the blood, flowing from me to Malfoy and from him to me. The words are still repeated, strengthening the connection, a clear voice chanting from some far away universe, calling me back.

Calling me home.

Slowly the pain fades away, my head clears, my lungs fill with oxygen, and I feel as light as air. Just when I truly believe I am rising from the ground, the chant changes.

"_Ek biðja þinn._"

Malfoy calls out the last words loudly, his voice as clear as air. It washes over me like a furious wave, knocking the air out of me and returning me to this earth.

The last thing I am aware of as I pass out is the hot throbbing in my hand, and Malfoy's melodic voice, fading slowly into the background.

**TBC**

* * *

_**Author's note #2:** The chant is in Old Norse. I don't really speak Old Norse, but since I speak Swedish (which originates from Old Norse), I used Swedish grammar and translated the words. So the grammar might be completely fucked up, but the words separately should be right. If anyone does know Old Norse properly, feel free to correct me. If you don't, it shouldn't bother you either way._

Anyway, please review and share your thoughts of this first chapter, be they good or bad.


	2. Afterworld

**Chapter 2. Afterworld**

He moves around restlessly in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering wildly, small noises of distress passing his lips. He makes me feel even more uneasy where I sit beside him in the infirmary, trying to wrap a gauze around my wounded hand.

I'm exhausted. I want to sleep, to eat, to go back home and see if there is anything left of it. But I can't. I can't leave the fucking room thanks to what I was forced to do.

Not that I did not know the consequences of my actions, it was all completely clear to me. But it is Potter's fault that I am sitting here now, his fault that he couldn't focus long enough to keep himself alive two minutes after bringing down the Dark Lord.

It is all I can do not to hit him for his stupidity

Naturally, I could have left him to die. But where was the point in fighting for the winning side for all that time if they would all end up condemning me a traitor because I didn't do everything in my power to save their precious hero?

Not that my deed is likely to gain anyone's approval either.

* * *

_I have strange dreams._

_I'm back on the battlefield, but in the middle of the fight, not far on the side trying to stay out of trouble. Then I see a woman some yards from me, wading out into the high grass, as if she's after someone. But I see no one else._

_Leaving the centre of the battle I follow Bellatrix, watch her stop in the high grass and let out a high pitched laugh._

"_Well, well. If it isn't little Harry Potter, and right at my feet too!" _

_She points her wand to the ground and mumbles something else, but I don't have time to listen._

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

_For some reason flicking the wand at the woman is harder than I had thought it would be. My heart feels heavier than before, and I find it hard to breathe in properly. Why, I can't comprehend. Why would I have any qualms about killing Sirius' murderer?_

_Moving forward again, I reach Bellatrix's corpse and the person she was trying to kill. I feel as if someone has hit me in the face when I look into those green eyes, hiding behind inky strands of hair, looking back with shock and disdain._

_If that is Harry Potter, then who am I?_

"_Potter, you stupid prick!" I yell out, grabbing the boy in front of me by his arm and pulling him to his feet. I let go of him immediately, feeling a sneer form onto my face. "Try to stay alive, will you? At least until you kill the Dark Lord."_

_Then the image changes. I am alone on the battlefield, looking down at the corpses of Avery and Carrow. I still hear noises of fighting behind me, but I run away from them, towards the edge of the forest where two figures are lying in the dirt._

_I slump down next to a body, lying face down in the mud, convulsing from what looks like excruciating pain. The screams echo in the trees beside us._

"_Potter! Potter, do you hear me?!" _

_I turn the body, _my _body, Harry Potter's body, so that he is facing up. He blinks furiously, his eyes wide in pain and shock, his hands clawing at his own chest in panic. Roaring at him in frustration, I try to get him to keep still. If he does not, he will not stand a chance._

"_Potter, goddammit!" I cry out. "Stop moving, or it'll spread faster!"_

_Reluctantly he fights to keep still, but when he does not move, all strength seems to leave him. The light in his eyes goes out like a candle, and I feel as if I'm watching life drain out of him. I feel myself growing even more desperate, but as the tears begin to flow down his cheeks, I gather myself. _

_I realise what I must do. Reluctantly, I reach for my knife.  
_

"Aaaaagh!" I cry out in panic, opening my eyes to find myself in a familiar room with stone walls. Immediately someone leans over me; Madame Pomfrey, potion in hand. But her intention to help me only makes me feel more panicked, and I can't seem to stop hyperventilating. I try to concentrate on breathing, heaving myself up into a sitting position in spite of Pomfrey's objections, fighting to get hold of myself.

And then I see him. Draco Malfoy, sitting in a chair by the foot of my bed, staring at me with cold indifference over an old copy if the _Daily Prophet. _Yet, I sense something resembling concern coming from him, and somehow the knowledge calms me down immediately. Breathing out in relief, I lean back against my pillow.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" Madame Pomfrey asks as she hands me a vial of a foul-smelling green concoction, which I swallow quite reluctantly.

"I'm fine," I croak weakly, though I still feel a dull, throbbing pain in my entire body. It's not bad though, nothing compared to what I felt on the battlefield.

Speaking of which…

"What happened to--"

"He's lying," a cold voice interrupts me. Pomfrey's attention is turned towards Malfoy. The Slytherin doesn't even look up, but keeps his eyes focused on the newsletter as he repeats his statement. "He's lying. He's still in pain."

I lift an incredulous eyebrow at the blond, wondering silently what in my face revealed the truth. And why Malfoy of all people was the one to interfere? I get no opportunity to protest before Madame Pomfrey is pouring another potion down my throat. The liquid tickles my throat and I end up coughing convulsively.

"What happened?" I rasp, tears in my eyes. "Where are the others?" It's not an easy question to ask, but I need to know. I need to know how many we lost, how many of my friends I have to say goodbye to this time.

"I think Mr Malfoy can answer that question better than I," Pomfrey advices, nodding towards the blond. "I only know the whereabouts of those brought in here." The woman sighs, gathering the empty vials onto a tray. Before she leaves she looks back at me. "Don't extort yourself," she commands, casting a warning glance in Malfoy's direction. "See to it that he stays in bed. And no fighting now, boys."

With last pointed look she leaves for her office. As soon as the door slams shut after her I turn to Malfoy.

"What are the casualties?" I ask, my voice quivering slightly from trepidation. Malfoy raises a pale eyebrow at my forwardness, but doesn't question it.

He takes a deep breath and sets the _Daily Prophet _aside before answering. "Eleven dead or as good as, most of them Aurors. Mr Weasley was badly wounded and was shipped off to St Mungo's. Granger got hexed but she's recovering, though Pomfrey put her under a Sleeping Draught." The blond nods towards another bed at the other wall of the infirmary, where I see a familiar head resting on a pillow. "I think Kingsley got hit pretty badly, but that didn't stop him from going out there now and seeing to it that the Death Eaters are sent to Azkaban."

I suddenly feel very tired, the knowledge of all that destruction, all those lives wasted, gathering like a lump in my stomach. It feels so strange to hear it all when my own memories of the battle are so muddled.

Voldemort is gone.

Finally, I did it. But that so called accomplishment seems to fade into that shadowy place in my brain, that darkness where everything from these last years is gathered. How can we rejoice in someone's death when we have so many others to mourn for?

I try to feel proud of myself, to thrive in the knowledge that I defeated the greatest dark wizard of all times. But I can't remember feeling any joy as I watched him crumble to the ground. Actually, all I remember is the pain that followed.

"What happened to me?" I croak, breaking the silence that has lingered in the room during my reverie.

"You were hit by a Scelero-curse," Malfoy answers, the words sending shivers down my spine. I have no idea why; I don't even know what the curse does.

"A what?" I ask dumbly, furrowing my brow at the Slytherin in confusion. He sighs exasperatedly, looking very uncomfortable as he begins to explain.

"Scelero Profanus. A curse designed specifically for Muggles and half-blood wizards," he elaborates, leering at his own words as they pass his lips. "It dries out the bad blood in your veins, and the victim basically ends up dying from internal blood loss. It is considered to be extremely painful."

_I'll second that! _I think sardonically to myself, grimacing slightly at the memory. Malfoy raises an annoyed eyebrow at me, as if telling me to shut up and listen.

It takes me a second to realise I didn't even speak.

"…So," I begin, still confused. "Does it have a counter-spell? You saved me, didn't you?" I ask reluctantly, dismayed over the fact that I actually owe Malfoy something. My life, nonetheless.

"It does not have a counter-spell," Malfoy answers grimly, his thin lips twisted in a foul sneer as he forces the words to cross his lips: "To save you, I was forced to bond with you."

Initially, I want to hit the git for yanking my chain when I am humiliated enough as it is. I open my mouth to inform him that his little joke is most certainly not amusing, but when I look into his eyes my jaw falls shut. There is no humour in them, not a tiny twinkle of mirth in those cold grey pools. And suddenly I have no doubt of his sincerity.

"Are you fucking insane?!" I explode, unable to do any thing to control my temper. "_Bonded? _Isn't that some sort of _marriage_? Don't you need my consent or something?!"

"Stop yelling, Potter," Malfoy snarls, his face calm but his presence reeking of resentment. "I am as furious as you are."

"Then why the hell did you do it?" I shout back, as much as I try unable to fight my fury. Too late I realise that I may have taken things too far.

I can almost hear it when Malfoy finally snaps. "To save your fucking life!" he roars, flying out of his chair with such force I almost think he will attack me. But for some strange reason, the thought of Malfoy assaulting me isn't as enraging or frightening as it should be. Instead it awakes the most unsettling thoughts of heavy breathing, muscles straining, heart pumping--

But Malfoy remains where his stands, his infuriated glare piercing through me as I fight to pull myself back from my most disturbing space-out ever.

_You ungrateful little prick! If this is how you repay me, I would have been better off leaving you to die!_

"Hey! I did not--" I begin to protest, before I suddenly realise that Malfoy didn't even move his lips. A scream getting caught in my throat, I stare dumbly at the Slytherin. "How did you _do _that?!"

Malfoy looks slightly abashed, an embarrassed twitch in his lower lip. "I lost control," he admits, leering back at me viciously. "You're one to talk, I've been bombarded by your tedious inner monologue all day!"

"You can hear my _thoughts_?!" I cry out, ashamed of the panic clearly audible in my voice, resisting the urge to cradle my head to stop any more thoughts from escaping.

Malfoy simply snorts mirthlessly, sitting back into his chair. "Don't flatter yourself in thinking that I _try _to," he drawls dryly. "Your capability of controlling your emotions is positively abominable, and I have no way of blocking it."

I feel my cheeks heat up in embarrassment, horror taking over me. This certainly explains some things. But the question is, how will I get rid of it?

"Please tell me this thing is reversible," I plead, staring at Malfoy with desperation. "Bonds can be broken just as easily as they are made, right?"

"It's not quite so simple," the blond answers, looking at me with gloomily. "I was forced to use blood magic, which is noticeably more complicated than a usual bonding."

"Do elaborate," I grit sardonically through clenched teeth, clenching my fists around the bed sheets in a desperate attempt not to lash out at the git.

"You're still screaming in my head," Malfoy informs me laconically.

"Just shut up and tell me what you know!" I explode, no longer caring how classlessly I behave.

Malfoy sighs, clearing his throat theatrically. "I gave you my blood, which prevented the curse from fulfilling its purpose," he says, showing up his left hand, the palm wrapped with gauze. "The bond allows us to share certain thoughts and… _feel _the other's emotions," he clarifies.

"There is a way to break it, though," Malfoy finally professes, and I almost fall out of the bed.

"What is it?" I demand. "Let's do it!"

"It's the only reason why I chose this particular bond," the blond says. "Because though I could make the bond without your consent, the bond needs to be _consummated_ to be completed."

"Consummated?" I repeat dumbly, the word echoing in my head. "You mean as in…" I trail off, gesturing offhandedly, unable to say the words out loud.

"As in sex, yes. What are you, Potter, twelve?" Malfoy leers exasperatedly. I open my mouth to answer him with an insightful insult on his own mentality, but my irritation over his contemptuous attitude seems suddenly unimportant next to the words he just uttered.

Choking on my own words, I stare back at the Slytherin in deep shock. "Are you seriously proposing that we--"

"No!" Malfoy exclaims, his mouth twisted in a sneer, proof of both his disgust and annoyance of my assumption. "Potter, you moron! I'm saying that the bond breaks if we don't do it!"

I have a feeling I'm not quite following. "So what is the problem here? We just stay out of each other's ways for as long as it takes, right?"

Malfoy takes a deep breath, his irritation still evident. "The problem is that the fresh bond requires us to be together. It prevents me from even leaving this room! Or do you think I would _voluntarily _stay by your bedside when for the first time in years I could be doing anything I wanted to?"

I smother the part of me that feels affronted by his words, instead quirking a confused eyebrow at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes!" he cries out, his eyes flying to the door of Madame Pomfrey's office, making sure she is not on her way to investigate what the ruckus is about.

"Don't you get it?" Malfoy asks impatiently, staring at me intently, his hands wrapped so tightly around the arm holds of his chair that his knuckles turn white. "It's not as simple as it sounds. The bond _wants_ us to consummate it!"

For a moment I consider the possibility that Malfoy is mistaken. I can't recall feeling particularly moved by his presence in the room.

_Except--_

"Fuck!" I exclaim, and Malfoy nods grimly at my realisation. I stare at him in horror, going through certain events of the past hour. I calmed down immediately when I saw Malfoy in that chair, when I thought he was going to attack me I…

"So," I begin, still doubtful. "You mean to say that the bond will cause me to think… certain things? And I can't do anything about it?"

"Precisely."

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. _Thank God for that. I thought I was going insane here!_

Malfoy huffs dryly. "Don't try to pretend it hasn't already happened to you. There is no use denying it," he drawls. "I can still hear your thoughts, remember?"

An embarrassed flush spreads over my face, but I chose to ignore it. It's not as if I could win this debate, either way. I fight to concentrate on the real matter of urgency instead of my pride.

"Let me get this straight," I state, trying to control all the mixed feelings in my head. "The bond wants us to… _consummate it,_" I emphasize the dreaded words._ "_and we can't let it. How long is it going to be like this?" I ask, crossing my fingers for 24 hours.

"An estimated 40 days. Which means we have 39 left," Malfoy sneers. My stomach drops.

"And if we… can't control ourselves?" I enquire with dread, though I fear I already know the answer.

The Slytherin takes a deep breath before he answers, the most displeased scowl I have ever seen on his face. "Then we will be bonded. For life."

"…Shit."

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Cupid's Victim

**Chapter 3. Cupid's Victim **

"Sodding fucking fuck."

"What an eloquently put statement, Potter."

"Oh shut up, you ponce."

I sneer at Potter, but do not lower myself to his level of childish name-calling. Instead I raise a rather expressive finger gesture. He leers viciously back at me.

"What the hell are we going to do?"

I lean back in my chair, sighing. "We try to get through these 39 days without doing anything _stupid_," I state, clearly emphasizing on the importance to avoid said stupidity and lack of self-restraint. "And we have to try to keep this out of common knowledge."

Potter nods, for once looking serious and not just annoying. "The Weasleys will have to be told, as will Hermione and the other Order members."

I nod to indicate my agreement. "Very well. But that's enough. Only those who need to know, no one else."

"Madame Pomfrey?" Potter asks, glancing towards the mediwitch's office door.

I contemplate the matter for a moment before answering. "I don't think it is necessary. She didn't discover anything unusual when she examined me, or you for that matter. And there is nothing she can do for us, anyway."

Potter nods, sighing tiredly as he leans back against his cushions. "This is so messed up."

I snort noncomically. "You don't say."

"I just--," he continues, staring out through a window without really seeing it. "I can't believe it."

"Well, believe it," I mutter sourly, eyeing the newest copy of the _Daily Prophet_, just printed this morning. It bothers me that the first page is adorned with the declaration of victory, when the list of those fallen goes on for five pages. Trying to focus on the names however is impossible, as Potter's raging emotions just about send my flying to the walls.

Anger, frustration, and confusion seem to seep under my skin, and it is all I can do not to react. On top of that my body is telling me that I should approach Potter and alleviate his distress. And all the while I hear Potter's body ordering him to do the same, seeking to cross the yards that separate us and--

And some disturbing, unnameable things.

It is almost so that I breathe out of relief when I hear the door open behind me.

"Harry!" Molly Weasley's voice is heard. "Merlin, I'm so relieved!"

The woman rushes past me towards the bed, already embracing Potter in a tight hug before she shrieks and moves away. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you alright? Not badly hurt, I hope?" she enquires, eyeing Potter's ruffled frame worriedly, ignoring me completely.

"I'm perfectly fine, Mrs Weasley--," Potter begins, but is interrupted when Madame Pomfrey suddenly bursts through her office door.

"Molly! I thought I heard your voice," the mediwitch says, hurrying towards us. She shakes Mrs Weasley's hand warmly. "How is Arthur? "

Mrs Weasley smiled sadly. "They say there was less damage than previously estimated, and he shouldn't suffer any permanent damage, but nothing is certain yet," the woman says, putting on a brave face even as her anxiety shines through clearly. "If all goes well though, they say he could be home by the end of the week." The woman looks just as tired as I feel, with dirty, ragged hair dark shadows beneath her eyes.

"I'm sure he's going to be just fine," Madame Pomfrey assures, laying a comforting hand on Mrs Weasley's shoulder. "Arthur is a fighter."

The red-headed woman smiles again, brighter this time. The she seems to remember herself and turns back towards the bed, this time acknowledging my presence as well as Potter's. "How are the boys? You look very tired, Draco."

"I am," I agree, lifting an irritated eyebrow in Potter's direction. He sneers back spitefully.

"I checked Mr Malfoy's condition and he seems perfectly healthy, aside from some minor scratches. Mr Potter was unconscious when he was brought in, but he doesn't seem to have any bigger injuries. As a matter of fact, I have no idea what he was hit by," Madame Pomfrey informs, looking quite puzzled. Then she shrugs, smiling at Mrs Weasley. "But don't worry. A good night's sleep and I think they will both be as right as rain."

_Yeah, right._ I suppress the urge to snort out loud.

"Thank Merlin!" Mrs Weasley exclaims, looking so emotional I'm almost afraid she's going to start crying. I resist the urge to pipe in and tell her that her precious adopted son isn't as well off as he seems. And while the stern glare Potter is sending my way ordinarily wouldn't be enough to silence me, the desperate emotions radiating my way shut me up quite efficiently.

The disturbing thing about the bond is not that someone else's emotions try to control my actions, but that a part of my own body really wants to obey those intruding emotions. Basically the emotional part of my brain goes at war with itself, which is highly distracting. Merlin, I wish Potter had the sense to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself. _Obnoxious little Gryffindor prat. _

"Madame Pomfrey," Potter interrupts, looking worriedly at the mediwitch. "How is Hermione doing?" He looks over at the sleeping girl in the bed further away, and both of the women follow his gaze.

Madame Pomfrey sighs deeply, looking slightly concerned. "I don't know what the spell was that hit her, but she was in very bad shape. I had to use Skele-Gro to re-grow the bones into her legs because they were completely smashed, and she also had some internal bleeding," the mediwitch explains, and both Mrs Weasley and Potter start to look a little green. However, Madame Pomfrey smiles encouragingly.

"I've been giving her Sleeping Draught so that her body will rest and heal faster, and I think she should be ready to get out of bed by tomorrow evening."

Mrs Weasley breathes out with relief, her exhaustion seeming to rain off her shoulders. "Good. I'll contact her parents tonight, they will be so relieved to hear that she's alright."

"Very good," the mediwitch smiles, pleased. Then she turns back to me and Potter. "Now for you two. How are you boys feeling?"

"Just peachy," I mutter sardonically, and Madame Pomfrey looks at we with mild irritation.

Potter casts a glance my way, silently confirming that our plan still stands. I nod almost imperceptibly, but Potter gets the cue. He smiles towards Madame Pomfrey and Mrs Weasley, merely shrugging. "I'm fine," he says simply, actually putting on a quite convincing show. "Just a little tired."

"Oh, you'll be just fine as soon as we get you home," Mrs Weasley beams, turning towards me as well. "You are very welcome to stay with us as well, Draco, in case you are not eager to return to Malfoy Manor immediately."

The offer is presented so warmly that I almost believe there to be some integrity behind it. Still, I have already opened my mouth to decline the offer when I remember my current situation.

God, how I long to return home. I haven't seen the Manor in several years. But even if I managed to drag Potter with me home, there would be no one else there to stop us from forgetting ourselves and doing the unspeakable. As much as I despise the thought of living with a bunch of Weasleys in their little rat hole, it is better than spending the rest of my life with Saint Potter.

And so, in spite of every cell in my body screaming at me to shut up, I turn towards Mrs Weasley. "That is very generous of you, Mrs Weasley. Thank you."

Both Potter and Mrs Weasley stare at me slack-jawed, looking much like I have just professed myself to be the reincarnation of Moses. It is clear that neither of them ever expected me to take up on the offer.

Mrs Weasley however recovers quite swiftly. "Wonderful," she croaks, clearing her throat before she turns towards Madame Pomfrey again. "When can I take them home?"

"As soon as it suits you," the mediwitch replies. "I'll just give Harry here a couple of strengthening potions and you can be on your way."

* * *

"Thank you so much for this," Potter says to Mrs Weasley as we step into the Weasley abode.

Mrs Weasley smiled widely, laying a gentle hand on Potter's shoulder. It looks odd, given that he is more than a head taller than she is.

"Oh, don't worry about it, dear," she says warmly. "I'm just so happy that you are both alright."

Apart from that, I'm pretty sure she just likes having a lot of people in the house, keeping her busy. As if the twins weren't enough for her to handle.

"You may take Percy's room," Mrs Weasley says softly. "If Hermione does come back here, I'm sure she would like to stay in Ron's." Her voice breaks slightly at the mentioning of her son, and I watch an almost visible shadow fall over both her and Potter, the emotion all too tangible because I can feel Potter's silent despair.

"Of course," Potter croaks, and I can sense his relief. He knows that if he were to stay in Ron's room, he could not keep himself together for long.

"You may stay in Bill's room, Draco," Mrs Weasley smiles at me, and I nod thankfully towards her. "It's the first door on the right on the third floor."

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley."

Anything might be said of Mrs Weasley, but at least she carries herself gracefully, even through the losses of her sons. It is one of the things where I can clearly see her pureblood heritage.

"Now, why don't you boys get settled?" Mrs Weasley asks, turning towards the kitchen. "I'll get started on the dinner."

Potter is already ready to agree, moving towards the stairs when I stop him with a single look. He realises my intentions, breathing in deeply once before he calls after the Weasley matriarch.

"Mrs Weasley," he says, causing the woman to turn back.

"Yes?"

Potter cringes slightly, clenching and unclenching his fists before speaking. "We have something we have to tell you."

* * *

"You did _what?_" Mrs Weasley exclaims in disbelief, staring wide-eyed at Malfoy.  
"I bonded with him," the Slytherin repeats simply, not looking pleased about the matter in the slightest. He raises his left hand, rips off the gauze that is wrapped around it, and reveals a bloody gash that crosses his palm.

I am glad we made the woman sit down by the kitchen table, for she looks like her legs might have given in were she standing up.

"It was the only way to save him," Malfoy continues, glancing over at me with a pointed look. I feel pathetically weak when he speaks of me in that patronizing way. I can't very well argue with him about it either, when his words are absolutely true.

"But…" Mrs Weasley begins, still in complete disbelief. "How is it even possible? Bonding is a very complicated form of very advanced magic," she says, staring intently at Malfoy. "To bond and give someone your blood you need--"

"--The proper enchantments and a thorough knowledge and experience of the magic. Yes, I know, and I have that," Malfoy interrupts impatiently, apparently offended by the disbelief he is facing. He sneers arrogantly at Mrs Weasley. "Don't forget that I was brought up in a home that greatly valued old traditions. Blood magic is as old as it gets."

Greatly annoyed by Malfoy's arrogance, I aim a kick at his shin under the table. Malfoy hisses at me viciously, but I'm certain my message didn't get through. Mrs Weasley only nods absentmindedly, apparently too blown away by the new information to even recognise Malfoy's haughty disdainfulness.

"You're saying that it's reversible?" she asks, her eyes flickering between me and Malfoy.

"Within 40 days," I reply, an uncomfortable flush spreading on my face. "Unless it is… consummated." I have to look away upon uttering the last word, but I can feel Mrs Weasley's shocked stare burning through me.

"I see," Mrs Weasley breathes after a minute, sounding surprisingly calm. I look up to se her looking at both me and Malfoy, her gaze unexpectedly sympathetic. "Oh, you poor boys," she says softly. "First the war and now this."

Malfoy looks, if possible, ever more sour than before. It is obvious that he does not enjoy being pitied, by a Weasley no less.

Mrs Weasley breathes in deeply again, before she moves to stand up from her seat. "It's settled then," she says decisively, looking between the two of us. "You will both stay here until the 40 days are over, so we can keep an eye on you both. I think Arthur will be very interested in this matter," she muses, sounding almost happy.

I nod at Mrs Weasley, while I look cautiously over at Malfoy. While I personally am very happy for Mrs Weasley's hospitality and concern, I fear that Malfoy won't take this so well. The tense set of his jaw and his crossed arms practically ooze of irritation over having to take orders from a Weasley, even as we have very few other options. Still, the blond manages to suppress his dismay very well, as he nods curtly but gratefully at Mrs Weasley.

Personally, I am amazed by Malfoy's ability to hide his feelings from not only other people, but even from me. I am supposed to be able to sense his emotions, even hear his thoughts, and yet, I get nothing. Perhaps a small tinge of his irritation reaches me occasionally, but that is all. While I am pleased to have my head to myself, it bothers me that he can hear every other thought of mine whilst I have no idea what he is thinking.

"Now," Mrs Weasley says, smiling widely. "you boys must be exhausted. Why don't you get settled, and I will get started on dinner? Fred and George will be home any minute, and trust me, they will be hungry."

Her light tone sets me at ease somewhat. I rise from my chair, watching Malfoy do the same as I smile at my adopted mother. "Thank you again, Mrs Weasley. We're truly grateful."

"Oh no, no need to thank me, dear," Mrs Weasley chuckles warmly. "This is your home as much as mine."

"Thank you," Malfoy nods stiffly at Mrs Weasley, before turning on his heels and making his way up the stairs. I hurry to follow him, though I am forced to ask myself why when an uncomfortable silence builds up around us.

"This is my room," I state when we pass Percy's room. Malfoy only huffs slightly, turning to gaze quickly at the door before continuing up the stairs to the third story.

"I'll be going to Bill's room then," he mutters under his breath, not even looking at me. But he drags his feet slightly all the way up the stairs, and I realise that this is the first time he has left my presence since I woke up. This is also the first time I truly come to realise the bond's existence.

It is as if something is tugging at my chest, a string wrapped in my ribcage, the other end connected with Malfoy. It keeps me standing in the hall, looking after the Slytherin, longing to follow him while my head tells me to just go forth into Percy's room. I feel short of breath, my heart beating much too quickly, the blood pumping through my veins so fast that the pounding of it rings through my head.

Finally I pull myself together, moving from where I've been frozen in place. I stomp into Percy's room and slam the door shut behind me. Leaning back against the closed door, I wait for the irregular pounding of my heart to cease, for this suffocating longing to let go of its hold.

It never does.

* * *

**TBC**


	4. Kaleidoscope

**Chapter 4. Kaleidoscope**

Bill Weasley's room has little to cheer for. Located on the third floor, it has a small window with a view into a very ill-kept garden. The ceiling slopes so much that I can barely sit down on the bed without hitting my head.

The room is long and narrow, a small table by the window and a tiny wardrobe beside it. A low bookshelf is placed opposite the bed, and is filled with what looks like old schoolbooks and various knickknacks. It seems old William hasn't been spending much time here since his last year at Hogwarts.

Sighing, I lay down on the bed, running my fingers over the rough, worn fabric of the bedspread. Closing my eyes, I try to imagine myself as far away from this strange place as possible. I imagine myself going home, finally stepping through those familiar doors which I haven't laid eyes upon for years. I miss it. I miss the small things, the scent of the candle-lit dining room, the feel of the velvet curtains by the clear windows overlooking the orchard.

I shouldn't complain. I got through the war with minimum injuries, and spending a month with Potter and the Weasleys afterwards isn't the end of the world. I have endured much worse. It's not as if the Manor is going anywhere.

What bothers me is the prolonging of the time before I return. The moment which I have been waiting for, dreading throughout the war. The moment when I step through those doors and realise there is nothing left for me there. Just a large, old house which I am supposed to fill with memories. But all the memories I have are from my childhood, from the war. Things I'd much rather forget. And building new memories is hard when you're alone.

Once again I am unjustifiably jealous of Potter. For he gets to stay here with his family, his friends, together building up what has been destroyed.

I have nothing left to re-build.

My thoughts are caught off when a blurry vision of another room appears before my eyes. It takes me a second to realise it comes from Potter. The room in my is coloured with different, ghastly shades of orange and red, and the walls seem to be padded with Quidditch posters. A heavy weight lands on my shoulders, and I know it has nothing to do with my own thoughts. And suddenly I realise that the room in the image is surely not the one of the Prefect Percy Weasley.

Overwhelmed by a suffocating feeling of abandonment and loss that is not mine, I cannot stop myself from rushing out through the room in search of Ronald Weasley's room.

* * *

I don't know why I came here. To torture myself further? So that perhaps one aspect of pain in my life would suffice to sooth another?

Ron's room looks exactly as I remember it. Not a thing has been moved since I was here last. The nostalgia almost makes me believe that he will appear before my eyes at any moment, step past me in the doorway and hit me playfully over the head, laughing at me for spacing out. My chest tightens painfully, the immense discomfort from the bond merging with the aching memories.

Then suddenly I feel a shift in the bond, but I have no time to react before I hear him step in beside me in the doorway. For a moment I wonder how he found me, until I realise my distress was probably screaming at him through the bond. I feel a silly urge to apologize, ashamed of my weakness reaching him so markedly. But Malfoy says nothing, demands no apology, no explanation.

At the same time I am irritated by his intrusion on my sorrow on such a personal level, while on the other hand his presence makes me so relieved I could cry. He stands so close beside me, the sound of his breathing reaching my ear, his hand hanging by his side, a mere inch from mine. I long to reach out for him, to receive the comfort that the bond thinks he will provide. But I remain frozen in place, only clenching and flexing my hand in frustration.

Neither of us says a word.

"Boys? Fred ad George are here! It's dinnertime!" Mrs Weasley's voice cuts through the silence after what seems like a fleeting second in eternity.

I shake my head to retrieve my consciousness back into this moment, breathing deeply once before turning to Malfoy with an expression somewhere between a smile and an embarrassed scowl. "Great. I'm starving," I say lightly, afraid to look up at Malfoy's face but unable not to.

He stares back at me silently, his face expressing nothing of what he is feeling. Finally nodding curtly once, he turns back towards the hall. "Yes, me too."

* * *

"Are you two _serious?_"

Fred and George Weasley stare from Potter to me and back again with the familiar expression of shock and denial that befits the matter. The side of Fred's mouth twitches, as if he is waiting for someone to step up and declare everything a joke. George on the other hand looks like he might fall off his chair.

Potter swallows loudly, and a bright blush creeps over his nose. "Yes."

The twins look to me for confirmation, and when I make no move of protest, they look to each other with wide eyes. Then, so unexpectedly that Potter jumps in his seat at the noise, the two red-heads burst out in a roar of laughter. An nervous smile spreads over Potters face, and I grunt. _What the hell does he have to smile about?_

Being ridiculed by the Weasley twins is really nothing new. With me being a Malfoy, it is really unavoidable. I am proud to declare that in the last couple of years I have managed to ignore it. I have had other things on my mind than trying to get even with these two low lives. But with no war to focus on, no battles to prepare for, how am I supposed to endure this?

"Harry, I am _so_ sorry for you!" George cackles, trying to look sympathetic. I snort mirthlessly, gaining an unappreciative glare from the red-head.

"Have something to say, Malfoy?" he hisses between his teeth, a malicious smile still on his lips.

"George, please," his brother interferes with a good-natured chuckle, clapping him authoritatively over the back. George keeps sneering at me, but keep his mouth shut as Mrs Weasley appears with a large pot of some sort of stew.

Try as I may, I cannot bring myself to relaxing during the entire length of the dinner. The Weasleys are a strange family. The twins keep making lewd comments, causing Potter blush up to the roots of is hair, and forcing Mrs Weasley to hit her sons over their heads.

Apart from the occasional joke passed my way from either of the twins, or an overly polite question by Mrs Weasley, I feel completely excluded from the party. The four of them are part of a family, part of that group of friends and relatives that got through the war by supporting themselves. Mrs Weasley has lost three children and her husband is in the hospital, yet she has enough love for the rest of her offspring to pull through and fight for everything to be normal again. In spite of myself, I feel a tinge of envy growing in the pit of my stomach.

I don't want to be a part of this poor, hectic, messy family. But I want to be a part of something.

I want to belong somewhere again.

* * *

"Hah, I won again! Boy, Harry, you really suck at this!"

Malfoy lets out an amused scoff, but I fight to keep my focus on my opponent. "Just wait, Fred. Two out of three?" I dare him, thought I am pretty certain it will only result in an even bigger loss for myself.

"Sure thing, Harry. But I never knew you enjoyed losing so much," Fred smirks, assembling the chess pieces onto the board again.

From the other side of the couch, George grins at me. "It's useless, Harry. Ron could never beat Fred, and you could never beat Ron, so…" He chuckles lightly as I pretend to be insulted and show him the finger.

"We'll see."

Fred smirks at me and glances over at his brother. "You're one to talk, George. You never beat Ron, either," he says frolicsomely, causing me to burst out in laughter.

Malfoy huffs to himself, but the sound is not quiet enough to pass by George.

"What's so amusing, Malfoy?" he asks, spitting out the name as if it tastes particularly bad. When the Slytherin doesn't answer, it only increases George's irritation. "What are you doing here, anyway? Why not take your little book and get the hell out of my face?"

I open my mouth to clarify the restrictions of the bond, but Malfoy silences me with a glare. He leers at George, putting his book aside on the coffee table and rising from his chair.

"I can see when I am not wanted," he drawls, turning on his heels and heading for the hall. I feel the bond tug in my stomach again as Malfoy disappears out of sight, and I can barely prevent myself from calling him back.

George only huffs amusedly, before turning back to watch Fred's and mine ongoing chess game. I sigh deeply, leaning back in my chair, fighting to relax. I believe I can feel Malfoy climbing the stairs, each step taking him further from me, closing the iron fist around my lungs.

George has never liked Malfoy. It's no secret. He is almost as obvious about it as Ron always was, scorning and bringing down Malfoy every chance he gets. And Malfoy never hesitates to return the compliment.

Usually it is not so bad. For the most part their interactions have taken place in meetings or during battle, always in situations where they don't have time to fight, or when someone is there to break it up.

But Ron's death has only made it worse, and Fred has a hard time controlling his brother. Partly because he doesn't really want to. And George takes every chance he gets, as soon as Mrs Weasley is not in the room.

In truth, I have no right to judge him. Not two days ago, I was much the same. I hated Malfoy. I hate him even now. But the bond confuses me, tells me to desire things that I do not, tells me to suppress my true feelings. It twists my emotions into an uncontrollable blur of revulsion and want.

My heart screams for him, but my head does not answer. And Malfoy remains as distant as ever.

* * *

The house is all but quiet in the night. Even after Mrs Weasley has come home after her late visit to the hospital, and explosions have ceased to be heard from the twins' room, the house is filled with diverse sounds. Rats and what I believe to be a ghoul make a racket in the attic, the summer storm blows harshly against the house, making the walls creek and the windows resound with a cracking sound as they fight against the wind.

Perhaps I could sleep, even with all this noise. After all, no place I have slept in since the war began has been exactly what one might call peaceful. But right now, I would rather have to endure sleeping on the floor with fifteen other people in the room, than to be kept awake by the simple little detail of Potter's presence. Or rather, the lack f it.

In spite of my exhaustion, he keeps me awake. For as long as he is awake, I can hear his thoughts, his emotions exploding in my brain. Not very clearly, for he is as tired as I am, but distinctively enough to keep me wide awake. The bond doesn't want to allow me to sleep while I feel his distress. _Well, what about _my_ distress?_

I know that if I were to give in, I could just descend those stairs, fall in next to him on the bed and fall asleep immediately. But that would be pathetic. Humiliating.

Dangerous.

Would I risk binging myself to Potter for life for a temporary peace of mind? No, I have more strength than that. I have lived through a war, I can live through this.

Then, just as I have mentally shackled myself to this bed, Potter's emotions start to fade. I feel like I can hear him through the floor, his deep breaths filling the room as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

Breathing out in relief, I feel myself instantly falling asleep.

* * *

_I open my eyes, finding myself outside a magnificent mansion. White stones, clear windows, and a gigantic black door adorn the façade. I reach for that door without a moment hesitation, pulling it open with a loud creek. _

_The hall with its high ceiling, velvet-curtained windows and polished stairway is just like I remember it. Except, I realise, I don't. _

_My feet take me forward, running across the marble floor and up the stairs to the second story. Through dusky hallways I make my way, portraits of old, respectable, blond witches and wizards looking down at me an scoffing in dismay as I run past them. I laugh back at them, thinking that they are simply jealous because I am alive and they are not. _

_Finally I seem to reach my destination, reaching for the handles to a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway. Excited, I push them open, stepping into a familiar study. Heavy curtains cover the large windows, preventing the warm summer sun from lighting up the room. I cross the floor, stopping before a massive oak desk, smiling at the man behind it._

"_Good evening, Father," I say, slightly breathless from running. _

_Lucius Malfoy looks up slowly, taking in the sight of me with a look of dismay. I suddenly realise my error in disturbing him, at the same time become extremely conscious of my disarrayed hair and dirty clothes. I contemplate taking my leave and returning when I have made myself more presentable, but at the same time I know it is too late._

"_Draco," Lucius says slowly, setting aside the quill he is holding and leaning back in his chair. Hi curls his upper lip at my unkempt appearance. "What have I told you about bursting in like this when I am working? And why do you look like you just crawled out of a sewer?"_

"_I'm sorry, Father. I was flying," I say, desperately trying to correct my error. "I hadn't seen you since my return and I just wanted to--"_

"_I was just observing your report card," Lucius interrupts, reaching for a parchment from the side of his desk. _

"_I got an O in Potions and Charms," I proudly declare. Lucius silences me with a glare. He stands up from his chair and moves around the desk._

"_Yes, and so did that Mudblood Granger," he spits, running his hand over his cane, and I feel my insides grow cold. "She also exceeded you in both Transfigurations and History of Magic. What have you got to say for yourself?"_

"_I--," I begin stuttering, fear growing in my stomach as I try not to tremble under Lucius' piercing stare. "I had to practise Quidditch. The Mudblood doesn't have any such distractions," I state, fighting to keep my pride. _

_Without a warning Lucius raises his arm and backhands me forcefully. "Don't make excuses." _

_I lose my balance but am able t remain standing. I fight to prevent myself from crying, but a small tear finds its way down my cheek._

_I taste blood._

_Lucius sneers down at the no doubt pathetic figure that is me. "If your Quidditch-playing should in any way justify what you lack academically, it would require that you _won_!" A second time he raises his hand, this time ramming his cane right into my stomach. I yell out silently as the air is knocked out of me. Gripping my stomach I feel my knees give out, and I fall down to the floor with a thud. I can no longer prevent the salty tears from running in floods down my face, but I do my best to refrain from sobbing out loud._

"_I will not have my son shame me by being defeated by Mudbloods and halfbloods. I expect to see some improvement. Now get out of my sight and clean yourself up! Do not burst in here like that again!"_

_I cannot bear to look up into my father's face as I crawl up from the floor and rush out through the door. I don't want to see that man, his eyes blazing with disappointment and his lip curled in distaste as he looks upon his only son. When he gets like that, I do not recognise him. He is not the father I knew as a small child, the firm but loving man who would spoil me and treasure me above all else. Somehow that man has now disappeared to make way to this creature of unjustified brutality and scorn. _

_Still, it does not change the fact that I love him. I want to please him. _

_I will do anything to make him proud of me._

I draw in a deep breath as I awaken, trilled to find myself in my own body instead of the body of a twelve year-old Malfoy. I feel my breathing even out as I lay there in the darkness, trying to forget what I just saw. Was it my own dream? Or Malfoy's memory? Subconsciously I reach for stomach, searching for even a trace of the pain, to confirm to myself that it is all in my head. And I find nothing, not even a sore rib, not a scratch in the skin. And still, my dream seems none the less real.

I fight to calm down, but it seems impossible. The feelings and thoughts of Malfoy still haunt me, as if I subconsciously used Legilimency on the Slytherin in my sleep. And I can't get rid of the disturbing feeling of pity, of _sympathy _for the git.

I close my eyes, determined to fall asleep again. But as I do, there is only one thing on my mind.

_I still taste blood._

* * *

**TBC**


	5. Beautiful Dirt

**Chapter 5. Beautiful Dirt**

Malfoy is in a foul mood in the mornings. That much is obvious to me even without the ability to read his mind.

Today, just like very other morning, he waits for me in the hallway. When I step out of the room, he is there, leaning against the wall, sulking. He hates waiting.

I try to make amends by wishing him good morning. Some days he answers with a muffled grunt, but mostly, like today, he just ignores me, making his way down the stairs without granting me a second glance. Annoyed, I fight the urge to ask him why he even bothers to wait for me if I am such a burden. And as always I am disappointed when I realise that he _has _to wait for me. If he didn't, the bond would never let him enjoy his breakfast in peace.

Still, reasonable or no, his attitude pisses me off.

_I always thought Malfoys where supposed to have good manners. _

"We do when there is reason for it," Malfoy drawls, not even bothering to look back at me. I feel my ears grow hot from embarrassment, and I bite my cheek as I try to think of a come-back. But Malfoy has disappeared into the kitchen long before I have time to come up with anything witty enough.

"Good morning, boys," Mrs Weasley greets warmly as we enter. I think Mrs Weasley has adapted best to Malfoy's presence in the house. I can't help but feel a little annoyed by it. She always refers to us in plural, never by our separate names, making it even more painfully clear that I am never alone anymore.

"Good morning, Mrs Weasley," Malfoy answers curtly, taking a seat at the table where breakfast is already set. Glaring at the blond, I repeat his greeting.

_Oh, now it befits his Highness to behave himself._

Miffed, I take a seat in the chair next to Malfoy. Being so close to him eases my constant discomfort somewhat, even as it feels silly to sit right next to him when the entire table is surrounded by free chairs. Malfoy however does not react even the slightest, which makes me feel a whole lot better.

Breakfast progresses as any other day. I sit and stare out through the window, answering with the ever-appropriate "Ooh," or "Mmh," to Mrs Weasley's litany about various garden plants, while Malfoy hides behind the morning's _Daily Prophet_.

"Oh, Harry," Mrs Weasley suddenly interrupts her monologue. "I took the liberty of gathering your mail."

"My mail?" I ask, momentarily caught of guard. "What ma--" I am caught off as I notice the huge pile of letters and boxes in the far corner of the kitchen. Apparently they were to begin with stacked on the chair, but at some point they became too many, and now most of the letters lay scattered all over the floor.

Malfoy also looks forth from behind his the paper to take in the sight. "I was wondering when that was going to catch up with you," he drawls, raising an amused eyebrow.

"What the hell is this?" I ask no one in particular, staring at the mess.

"I would imagine that that is your fan mail," Malfoy responds, the mirth shining through his voice. He can barely stop himself from laughing out loud.

I turn to stare at the blond beside me. "_Fan_ mail?" I ask dumbly.

"Well, you're a _hero_, aren't you, Potter?" Malfoy asks, pronouncing the word 'hero' as if it tasted particularly bad. "Now more so than ever. You killed the Dark Lord, after all. Or did you think that you could just get away with that and not be remembered afterwards?"

Unfortunately, I have to admit that Malfoy is right. Still, I feel the strong urge to hit him just now, just to wipe the malicious sneer off his face.

"Actually, I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner," the blond continues, very conscious and very pleased about the murderous looks I am directing at him. "Who knew it would take them a week to figure out where you are hiding?"

"Oh God!" I sigh, barely resisting the urge to hit my forehead to the table.

"Why so blue, Harry?" asks Fred, who in precisely that moment decides to walk into the room, followed by his brother. "Was Malfoy too rough with you?" Both twins burst out into laughter.

"Fred! George!" Mrs Weasley explodes, while I can only manage to stare at the twins in shock. I glance over at Malfoy, who surprisingly enough looks just as horrified as I do. I guess only the Weasley twins can cause him to lose his calm.

"Very funny, guys," I mutter, feeling an embarrassed blush spread over my face. The twins are still roaring with laughter as they take a seat by the table.

"Sorry, Harry," George says lightly, very aware that his apology doesn't convince anyone. In spite of myself, I feel an amused smile spread on my face. Malfoy apparently doesn't find the situation as funny.

"Thank you," he says to Mrs Weasley, pushing his chair away from the table and rising from his seat. Newspaper in hand he stalks out of the kitchen. I feel a painful tug in my chest.

"Now look what you did!" Mrs Weasley hisses at her sons, as she cleans away Malfoy's teacup and his plate with a half-eaten piece of toast still on it.

I sigh dejectedly, stuffing the last piece of my toast into my mouth and standing up. "I'd better go check on him," I murmur, not looking the twins in the eyes, not caring to see their reactions.

I find him in the living room, sprawled in the large armchair in the far corner of the room. He doesn't even look up as I enter the room, he probably sensed that I was coming, anyway.

"Hi," I greet him, cautiously taking a seat on the couch next to his chair. Malfoy only huffs in response. I look over his shoulder and see that he is using a red pencil to circle spelling errors in the _Daily Prophet_. It is all I can do not to laugh out loud.

"Don't mind them," I say, wondering if it is for Malfoy's sake or mine that I try to justify the twins' actions. "In time, one learns to ignore their comments."

Malfoy doesn't answer, but keeps his focus solemnly on the newspaper, the side of his mouth twitching as it always does when he is particularly irritated.

I wonder why I even bother. If he so stubbornly chooses to be in a foul mood, why should I care? It's not my problem.

I sigh deeply, slouching back into the couch. Who am I kidding? Of course it's my problem. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be here now, would I?

The bond really puts me in a ridiculous situation. Malfoy's arrogance and stubborn hostility is really getting on my nerves. During the majority of the day I would like nothing more than to hex him into next Wednesday. But naturally, the bond prevents me from doing that. So I am left with using desperate and often ludicrous methods to try and make Malfoy feel even the slightest bit less rancorous. Methods that often fail miserably, only resulting in another vicious glare from Malfoy.

Once again, I am forced to take to such drastic methods.

I rise from my seat and march out into the kitchen. Malfoy looks up briefly as I leave, but says nothing. I approach the pile of letters by the chair and sweep them up in my arms, feeling quite a few of them crumple in my hands. I march out into the living room and drop the heap down onto the coffee table, causing Malfoy to look up in surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, arching a confused eyebrow at me as I slump down onto the couch once again.

"I am going through my mail," I state in an exaggeratedly self-important manner, reaching for the letter on top of the pile and proceeding to read its entire content aloud. I almost expect Malfoy to leave, but he merely turns back to reading his newspaper. Though I suspect he is at least partially listening to me, for he takes to huffing sardonically whenever I read something particularly idiotic.

Then again, he might just be laughing at me.

* * *

"Give me that," I order, reaching for the chocolate box in Potter's hand. "I like the one with truffle."

Potter chuckles, but hands me the box without objections. "And you dared to make fun of my fan mail," he teases, tearing up another letter and tossing it to the growing pile of paper chaff.

I scoff, taking a bite of the candy. "I still make fun of your fan mail. I'm just praising the refined taste your aficionados seem to have. It's a pity they don't have the same taste when choosing whom to worship."

"Ha ha," Potter mutters. "Very funny."

I leer smugly, gazing over the assorted letters, still scattered over the floor and coffee table. "What was that one from the ministry?"

"Ones," Potter corrects me, frowning. "Plural. They want me to partake in a number of different events to celebrate the victory. And apparently they are very ticked off by not being able to reach me earlier."

"Fancy that," I grin, gaining an annoyed glare from Potter. "No Order of Merlin yet?"

A faint flush spreads over Potter's face, and he nods abashed. "First Class."

I nod. "You aren't surprised, are you?" I mock, cocking an eyebrow at the Gryffindor. He sneers at me and doesn't answer, but raises a hand to hit me over the head. I manage to grab him by the wrist to prevent it, but regret it almost immediately.

A shock seems to travel through my entire body at the touch, electricity flexing between his skin and mine. I stare at Potter, my eyes locked with his, mid glassed, wide stare mirroring mine. My mouth goes instantly dry and I feel short of breath. It takes me far too long to gain the presence of mind to pull my hand away.

_Fucking bond._

"I-- uhm…" Potter begins, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly with his other hand and refusing to meet my gaze. My hand still tingles with the memory of his touch.

"New rule," I state as soon as my vocal chords begin to function properly again. "No touching."

Potter nods, swallowing loudly.

"No touching."

* * *

I curse myself for my carelessness for the rest of the day. This is precisely what I feared. That I would grow too accustomed to Potter's presence, too comfortable around him. If I had only maintained my own boundaries, Potter would never have gotten the ridiculous idea to approach me in any way. He would never in a million years have tried to smack me over the head in that manner.

But it becomes ever easier, letting go of my enmity against Potter. I can manage to hold on to it whenever we are in the presence of those dratted Weasleys, always making crude comments and making fun of me. But when I am alone with Potter, even as I do my best to drive him away, he is there. He talks about whatever inane thing that crosses his brain, and is determined to include me in whatever it is that he is doing. And it becomes impossible to send him away.

His presence eases the iron band that seems to be wrapped around my chest, the band that brutally tightens its hold whenever the bond is strained. Potter's asinine blabbering, the simplicity of his company has a calming effect that I am rapidly growing tired of denying.

But it is not his company that unnerves me. It is what might follow that does.

Suddenly a whooshing sound is head from the fireplace, and I look up to see green flames rise from the ashes. Out steps Mrs Weasley, back from her daily visit to St. Mungo's. Surprisingly enough, she is quickly followed by another figure it does not take me long to recognise.

"Hermione!" Potter exclaims, flying to his feet. Granger has barely set foot in the room before she has thrown herself around Potter's neck. As ludicrous as it is, I feel a sharp sting of jealousy at watching their closeness.

"Harry, I'm so glad to see that you're OK!" Granger gushes, pulling back from the embrace.

"Nevermind me, how are _you?_" Potter scoffs, gazing at his friend anxiously.

Granger looks tired, but she smiles widely "Oh, I'm fine now. You know healers, they are always a little overprotective. If it had been up to me, I would have come home days ago."

"It was just as well that you stayed and rested properly," Mrs Weasley points out, but she looks very pleased at having the girl here. The woman looks wary as she continues.

"I left Ron's room just as it was for you," she says softly, uncertainly taking in Granger's reaction. I myself am very relieved to find that Granger doesn't immediately burst out in tears, even though she looks quite shook at the mentioning Weasley.

"Thank you," she croaks, her voice betraying her.

A tense and heavy silence fills the room, the kind of silence shared by a group of people that have shared something intimately, people who grieve something together.

I feel ridiculously out of place.

Unable to bear it, I rise from my seat. "I think I will retire to my room now," I declare in a manner that must sound very insensitive, walking swiftly through the room. Granger stares at me in surprise, I gather that she hadn't even realised that I was in the room. I don't have the time to take in the reactions of Potter and Mrs Weasley.

I ascend the stairs to the upper floors hastily, feeling the iron band tighten its hold with every step. I find it almost impossible to breathe by the time I reach my bedroom. The discomfort doesn't stay that painful for long, soon I can sense Potter climbing the stairs after me. But unfortunately I can also sense that he is very pissed off, and the thought doesn't exactly meliorate my mood.

I don't even bother to act surprised when he bursts through my door.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" he yells out, glaring daggers at me.

I raise an innocent eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't expect you to mourn Ron. I don't even expect you to _pretend_ that you do," he says, the statement causing my eyebrows to dramatically approach my hairline. "But I do expect you to have the decency to show Hermione some respect!"

I can't help the huff that escapes me. "Don't kid yourself, Potter. Granger doesn't want my sympathy. Most likely she just wants me to stay out of her face so she won't have to think about me living in this house."

I sneer at Potter. "This is just about you, taking out your anger on me." Potter stares at me, hurt and enraged, clenching his fists in frustration. I know I have already said too much, but I can't control myself anymore. I leer viciously, taking a step closer to the inky-haired boy. "Granger doesn't give a fuck what I do. This is all about _you _and _your _hurt feelings!"

Too late I realise that I have taken things too far.

Potter raises his arm, and I am already about to duck out of the way of the blow when I feel him grab my collar. He pulls me towards him, slamming his lips down on mine, wrapping a strong arm around my back. My body is overwhelmed by the sensation of his touch, the contact sending sparks through my entire body, my legs turning to jelly. It is so bad, so wrong, and so perfect that I can do nothing but wrap my arms around Potter's neck and drown in the sensation. It is only when Potter opens his mouth and lets out a loud groan of satisfaction that I become conscious of myself and the entire situation.

I push him away violently, taking a few staggering steps backwards as I stare at the Gryffindor. He stares back, his eyes wide and his skin flushed pink, probably a mirror image of my own.

"Get out!" I order, my voice husky and breathy and sounding very little like a command. But Potter nods, swallowing loudly once before making a run for the door. As the door slams shut, I feel all my strength drain out of me, and I slide down onto the floor.

"Shit."

I can't send him away. And I can't be near him at the risk of… This. It all seems so simple, so safe, until something happens. The smallest of things, the lightest touch of a hand, a strong fit of emotion. And suddenly his presence is not nearly enough, I need more and so does he. I can feel his want, hear it screaming in his mind. Pulling away is sheer agony.

And the fear of one day not being able to resist it is driving me utterly insane.

* * *

**TBC**


	6. Comfort Zone

**Chapter 6. Comfort Zone**

_We're on the brink of war. I can feel it._

_I've known it to be approaching my whole life. But now the tension is building to be almost unbearable. It's evident everywhere: in the streets, in the papers, at home._

_Father doesn't come to dinner anymore. Most nights he isn't even home. Others, he just locks himself up in his study. Mother pretends not to worry, but she's not a very good liar. I know she lies awake every night waiting for him to come back home, praying that he will. _

_Sometimes I think it would be easier if Father never returned. Mother could stop worrying, and I could start doing whatever the hell I want to._

_Afterwards, I want to kill myself for thinking like that. He is working for what he believes in. He is protecting Mother and me, he is doing everything in his power to make life better for us. So when he hits me, I don't fight back. I never raise my wand against him. I love my father. So I bear the strikes and punches. It's not the end of the world. Cuts and bruises are just on the surface, they will heal in time. They will disappear. But the consequences that we will face if we lose this war will never go away. _

_And we all know that, we all make sacrifices. Mother lets Father fight, and I let him take it out on me. We're a family, we keep together. And so, I don't hate Father when he strikes me. And I don't hate Mother for pretending that she doesn't see the bruises._

* * *

"How is it going with Malfoy?"

Hermione looks at me softly, trying to make her enquiry seem as innocent as possible. I fight the urge to sneer, and pretend to be very interested in the fabric of the couch I'm sitting on. "Same as ever, I guess," I mutter nonchalantly, browsing offhandedly through the pages of _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

"Don't give me that." Hermione gives me a pointed look. "A fool could see that it's not the same. You haven't tried to kill each other _once_." She smiles, but it morphs into a serious frown when she sees that I'm not amused. "How are you managing to stay off each others' throats?"

I'm beginning to realise that I haven't briefed Hermione much of how the bond works. And I'm starting to think I won't. It has been twenty days. I can last 19 more. And I will get through them much more easily with Hermione thinking I'm fighting the will to kill Malfoy, not the will to--

Do other unnameable things to him.

"Mrs Weasley keeps us in check," I therefore answer, shrugging casually. Hermione doesn't look too convinced, but for once she doesn't press the issue.

"I'm still amazed that he agreed to come and live at the Burrow," she says, eyeing through the last page of the _Daily Prophet. _

Before I have time to answer, a snarky voice cuts through the room.

"And I thought you were brainy, Granger," Malfoy drawls, walking through the doorway to slump down next to me in the couch. The gesture is so simple, it feels so natural, until I see the peculiar gaze Hermione gives Malfoy.

Malfoy doesn't seem the least bit moved. "If I would have gone back home, I would have had to take Potter with me." He sneers. "And with Potter come the Weasleys." Malfoy snickers lightly as he continues.

"I couldn't very well bring a bunch of Weasels into Malfoy Manor, could I?" The wards alone would not allow it, the house would eat them alive on its own accord."

While Hermione only looks mildly horrified, I can't prevent the chuckle that escapes me at the mental image. Malfoy ignores all of this, casually gazing at Hermione.

"Are you done with that?" he asks, eyeing the Daily Prophet.

"Oh! Yeah, sure," Hermione answers, handing the newspaper to the former Slytherin. Malfoy takes it with a curt nod, leaning back against the couch and hiding behind the pages. It doesn't take him long to speak again, though.

"Any fan mail today, Potter?" he enquires, without even raising his eyes from the newspaper.

"I went through it already," I answer.

"Without me?" Malfoy asks in mock horrification. "I'm appalled!"

I snort and leer at him. "Don't worry, you didn't miss anything. No chocolate today."

"Damn. That's three days in a row." Malfoy sneers, rustling his newspaper in dismay. "I dare say that your popularity is fading, St. Potter."

"Yes," I agree, grinning. "How terrible."

It is only at this point that I notice Hermione's uncomfortable look where she still sits in her armchair. Her eyes wander from me to Malfoy and back again with a peculiar expression that I can't quite read. I'm not sure I even want to know what she is thinking.

When she sees that I have noticed her staring, Hermione's face cracks up into an embarrassed smile. "I think I'll go for a walk," she says, rising from her chair.

"OK," I respond, flashing her a smile. Unsurprisingly, Malfoy doesn't even react.

"Where do you suppose she goes everyday?" I ask the Slytherin when I hear the front door slam shut.

Malfoy shrugs, not even bothering to look up from what seems to be a particularly interesting article on how to grow beetleroot. "I'm guessing nowhere in particular. She just needs to get away for a while."

When I keep gazing at the blond in confusion, he sighs and lowers the paper from his face to look me in the eye. "Don't you think it would be hard to mourn a lost lover while living in his house and being surrounded by his family every hour of every day?"

I sigh. "Of course, but--"

"Don't worry about it," Malfoy cuts me off, his voice strangely calm and consoling. "She just needs some time alone."

I nod, breathing out and relaxing back against the couch. Malfoy's words are nothing new, nothing I haven't been telling myself every time I watch Hermione walk through that door. But hearing those words from Malfoy brings a strange sense of tranquillity to me. I have no doubt in my heart that what he is saying is true.

I hate the fucking bond between us. But I find myself coming to that point where I find it hard to imagine life without it. It's near painful tug has become a part of me, it is only meant to ease up when I'm near Malfoy. I find it hard to think of a situation where I don't feel the familiar squeeze around my chest when he is nowhere near me.

It is not that Malfoy has become any less obnoxious or arrogant, or that I grow any less irritated when he pushes my buttons. But in moments such as these, when he doesn't even bother to try and piss me off, I feel more content than I have ever felt in my entire life.

He doesn't have to do anything. He just have to sit there, next to me, his shoulder just _almost _touching mine, his intakes of breath mirroring mine.

I want this bond to disappear. I don't want to be bound to anyone for the rest of my life, least of all an obnoxious bastard like Malfoy.

But I don't want to imagine a life without this feeling.

* * *

The time here passes much faster than I imagined. Somehow Potter and I have settled into a routine, so comfortable and by now so familiar, that I barely think about the fact that it's all just temporary.

Of course, there are still the things that need to be avoided. Like touching, or getting too emotional. I spend most of my days trying to stay out of Potter's mind, and he spends most of his trying to keep his emotions at bay. He doesn't do a very good job at it.

It's not a particularly lively existence, but it's peaceful. Ironically, peace is the thing I have to watch out for. I can't get too comfortable, can't feel too _safe_, or I might let my guard down. Living with the bond is like trying to keep your mind closed against Legilimency at all times of the day. It's exhausting.

And still, I am prepared to trade the constant Occlumency for the serenity that overwhelms me when I sit here, next to Potter. It's positively ridiculous, but I can't help it. After what feels like a lifetime of war, this moment of calm is all I ask for.

"Why is the house so quiet?" I enquire, giving Potter a sideways glance. "Where are the twins?"

"They went with Mrs Weasley to St Mungo's," Potter murmurs, looking much like he might fall asleep on the couch. His head is thrown back, and his book lays useless in his lap. He doesn't even open his eyes as he continues. "They say Mr Weasley might be released today."

"Well, that's good," I respond, no longer really caring for what the answer was. I find myself still looking intently at Potter, watching his Adam's apple move as he speaks, his eyelids fluttering lightly as he fights the will to fall asleep. I feel myself licking my lips, trying desperately not to think any inappropriate thoughts. It soon becomes quite impossible.

Potter moves around in his seat, making himself more comfortable against the couch. He lets out a small groaning sound, something between a moan and a yawn. I feel my breath get caught in my throat, and I can only hope that the Gryffindor doesn't manage to hear my thoughts in this particular moment. Then his hand moves, falling down from his lap to rest beside him, just barely nudging at my thigh.

And it's too much for me. With a sharp intake of breath I jolt up from my seat. "Excuse me," I murmur as I all but run towards the door, unable to look back and meet Potter's confused stare.

* * *

_It burns all over. Liquid flames tearing at my intestines, pulling my skin from my flesh, setting fire to my bones. I can't even breathe without feeling pain, each lungful is a thousand knives to my chest. _

_I just want it to end. _

_When it does, it is all I can do not to fall into unconsciousness. I feel my body hitting the floor heavily, and seconds later a harsh kick is aimed at my ribcage. I try my best not to scream. A voice is speaking, but the room is spinning so violently around me that I can't make out the words. It doesn't matter, I know who is speaking, and I know what he is saying._

_I have tried my best, truly. I have fought to be the best Malfoy I can be, to live up to his standards. But be it academics, Quidditch, or the Calling, I will always fall short of his expectations. _

_The shame of being an interminable failure burns on my skin in the form of the Mark. I don't need Father to remind me of what a disappointment I am. _

I wake up with my heart in my throat, already preparing to scream out in agony when I realise I'm not hurt. Still, the burn of the Crucio, the throbbing pain reaches me all the same. The anxiety is overwhelming, and though I have no idea why, I can't seem to stop it.

Then suddenly I realise whom it really belongs to.

_Draco._

Without leaving myself time to think another thought I throw myself out of bed, tangling myself in my sheets as I rush out through the door, climbing the stairs to the third story in record-breaking time. I burst into Malfoy's room, finding him in the midst of his nightmare. He is lying on his back, his sheets have been kicked down to be tangled in a knot around his legs. He keeps trashing his head back and forth, sneering into the darkness as he lets out small pained whimpers. Malfoy's forehead is covered with sweat, and to my ultimate horrification I see traces of tears running down his cheeks and wetting his pillow.

I've never seen him cry before.

Without realising that I am moving, I approach the bed and sitting down on the edge of it, grabbing one of Malfoy's hands. His palm is sweaty and his fingers cling to my hand in a desperate fashion.

"Malfoy? Malfoy, wake up!" I try to rouse him, holding tightly on to his hand. The blond doesn't react to my words, but merely keeps crying out incoherent words through his tears.

"Malfoy! It's only a dream!" I exclaim, raising a hand to shake his shoulder violently. My hands tingle from the touch, but all I can really focus on is the anxiety Malfoy's mind is transferring to mine. I feel myself starting to get desperate.

"Draco!" I yell out, and finally the Slytherin opens his eyes. He stares up at me, his eyes wide in fear and surprise. He breathes heavily as he stares at me, his nostrils flaring. I know that I should leave now, I should move away and I should stop touching him. But my fingers seem glued to his skin, and he is still holding on to my hand so tightly that it hurts.

I can't move away. I don't have the power to do so. So when Malfoy raises his head enough to brush his lips against mine, I don't resist. When I don't move away, Malfoy gains confidence. His free hand comes up to wrap around my neck, pulling me downwards to meet him.

Malfoy is desperate and in pain, I can feel all the emotions raging within him as they do within me, and I can find no way to object. He needs comfort, he needs to feel safe, and in this moment I feel like I have no other purpose in this world. And so I feel myself losing the battle within me, and giving in to the kiss with all that I've got.

I taste the sparks of magic on his tongue, sending tinges of electric pleasure through my entire body. We are no longer Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, we are no longer human with words and rational thoughts. All we are are these brilliant colours that I see, these feelings and emotions of perfect completion.

He pulls me ever closer, ever nearer, and soon find myself lying wholly on top of him. My legs fit perfectly between his, and it feels so right, as if this was always meant to be. I feel his erection brush against mine through the layers of cloth, and I briefly wonder when I became aroused.

_We can't do this. _

I don't know it the thought is mine or Malfoy's, but we both break the kiss simultaneously. I stare into his steel gray eyes, dark with arousal yet hard with resolution. I nod decisively, pulling away and trying my best to untangle my fingers from his. But they don't want to cooperate, and I indulge myself to keep the touch as long as possible.

At last I rise to my feet, looking down at Malfoy who is still lying on his back, his face flushed and his breathing heavy. I remain standing there for a long moment, knowing that I should leave but unable to tear my eyes from the man in front of me.

"I'm sorry."

I don't know where the words come from, but after saying them I finally find myself able to look away. I take a deep breath and walk hastily out through the door. As I leave, I can imagine that I hear Malfoy's answer.

"Sorry for what?"

* * *

**TBC **


	7. Believing Like a Liar

**Chapter 7. Believing Like a Liar**

My heart is racing, seemingly wanting to burst out through my chest or crawl up my throat. I stare up at a ruffled, flushed Potter as he tries to move away but somehow decides to remain standing by my bed. His mouth is open in what I can only interpret as confusion and surprise. In my disoriented state it takes me a moment to gather the information of what just happened, and the gravity of the situation I am now faced with.

I wait for Potter to remove himself from my presence, I wait for myself to gather the presence of mind to tell him to do so, but all I can do is stare dumbly at him and try to make myself breathe normally. Potter swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in a panicked fashion. His eyes are deep as the ocean in the darkness, the brilliant green caught somewhere between desire and horrification.

"I'm sorry," he croaks weakly, finally averting his gaze. I open my mouth to respond, vaguely wandering what I want to say, but Potter is already making his way out through the door. He has made it out of hearing distance by the time I manage to utter the words:

"Sorry for what?"

Such foolishness on both of our parts. He is an idiot for ever setting a foot in this room. And I am an idiot for not wanting him to leave.

I can't do this. I can't accept what just happened, and more importantly, what would have happened if we hadn't been able to stop when we did. But in truth in honesty, there is no use trying to pretend that I didn't want it, that we both didn't need it.

I can stay as rational as ever, I can tell myself and Potter all the facts about our situation. I can take all the precautions possible, but when it all comes down to it, I find myself powerless to stop myself. When he is near me, when he touches me, kisses me, when I feel his breath on my skin, I don't care about the bond. In that moment even my own freedom is outshined by what Potter is offering me, by what I need from him.

And even afterwards, now that I know I should be horrified, petrified that this might happen again, all I can thing about is Potter. I feel his anguish, his confusion, his fear radiating to me through the bond. And all I want to do is go to him.

Before I realise what I am doing, my legs are walking me out through the door on their own volition. I descend the stairs to find myself faced with the closed door of Potter's bedroom. I can feel his presence, so close, merely a couple of yards away, and I know that he can feel mine.

I walk up to the door, barely managing to keep myself from reaching for the handle. Instead I lean my back against the door and slide down to the floor. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs, trying somehow to prevent them for grapping the door handle by my head.

"Potter?" I call out, ashamed of how raw my voice sounds.

A moment of silence follows, and were I not already so familiar with how Potter's mind works, I would have thought that he isn't going to answer me at all. But after what seems like a lifetime of waiting, his voice sounds through the closed door.

"Yes?"

I hear him, I _feel _him moving around inside his room. To my ultimate joy and dread I hear him approach the door, and I feel a violent tug in my chest as he too sits down to lean against the door, mirroring my position on this side. Somehow the feeling of having him so close to me without really touching, breaks all my barriers. I feel my shield melt away, and I feel Potter's presence enter my mind more clearly than ever. Horrified as I am, disappointed in myself for my weakness, there is a certain sense of relief over the situation. I have no opportunity to regret it, because the truth is that I have never felt this calm, this _safe_ in my entire life.

Right now, I can barely feel the clutch around my heart.

I feel myself releasing a breath I have been holding. "We both know that this isn't working," I state softly, hearing my deep sigh echoed by the man on the other side of the door.

"We're losing it." Potter's tone is low, resolute.

I sigh again, banging my head softly back against the door as I let my emotions slip through my teeth. "Fuck."

I hear a mildly amused huff from the other room, and an amused grin threatens to appear on my face. What either of us has to smile about, I really can't comprehend.

"Do you think it would help if we gave in? You know, just a little bit?"

For a moment I'm uncertain if those words were actually spoken or if they are the newest ludicrous illusion of the mind that I find myself losing.

"What?" I croak, unable to keep the agitated amusement out of my voice.

Potter doesn't seem the least moved by my horrification. "I like you," he says, letting out a weak chuckle. Before I have time to object, he continues. "I know it's the bond's fault, but that doesn't change my feelings right now. I _like _you, Malfoy." I hear the thud as he hits his head back against the door, and the hysterical laugh he lets out voices my own feeling perfectly.

When I find myself unable to give any sane-sounding response, objecting or assenting, Potter continues. "What if we're just… friends? You know, friends who play Quidditch and chess and play pranks on the twins together?"

He sighs tiredly, and I suspect it's not because of the late hour. "Can't we just stop pretending?"

Stop pretending? A beautiful idea, except that to be his friend would be just that: pretence. What I want is not to be his friend. What I want is so much more.

Still, the offer is far more than tempting. If we let ourselves accept that our relationship goes beyond simple toleration of the other's presence, then perhaps the bond can be subdued.

I take a deep breath, calming myself with the feel of Potter's presence on the other side of the door. "No touching?" I confirm, unwilling to let go of our old boundaries.

I can almost hear the smile in Potter's voice as he answers.

"No touching."

I return the smile that I can't even see, biting my lip as I then respond. "Friends, then."

Potter doesn't answer me anymore, and he doesn't have to. I relax against the door, imagining I can hear his calm breathing through it. I keep telling myself to return to my bed, but somehow find my eyelids falling shut as I lean my head back.

I doubt the bed could make me nearly as comfortable as I am now.

* * *

"Malfoy?"

I crack one eye open and meet the concerned gaze of the Mudblood with some difficulty.

"Mmh?" is all I manage to say, as I rub my knuckles in my eyes until I see stars. "What do you want, Granger?" A more accurate question would be 'How dare you stand there, staring down at me when I wake up?!' _I could have had a stroke!_

The witch gives me a strange look. "You-- uhm." She tries again. "You're…"

"Yes?" I urge her on impatiently, yawning.

Granger swallows loudly, apparently holding back something that seems like a nervous smile. "You're sleeping in the hallway."

I stare at the bushy-haired girl with a blank expression for eight painful seconds before the meaning of her words hit home.

_Lovely. Bloody fantastic._

I look around myself, and indeed, I find myself lying on the hard, dusty floor in the corridor outside Potter's room. As the realisation hits me, I also become aware of the fact that my whole body aches as if I'd been trampled by a herd of wild hippogriffs.

I take a deep breath, fighting hard not to scream out loud at myself for my stupidity.

"Well," I force forth, groaning as I reach for the door handle to pull myself up from the floor. "Thanks for pointing that out, Granger." I direct a sardonic sneer her way as I pass her on my way to the stairs.

"Sure," Granger responds, her voice filled with restrained laughter.

I ascend the stairs without looking back at her. I have no desire to see her mocking expression.

Unfortunately that expression seems not to have faded as I make my way to the kitchen a half-hour later. Granger sits comfortably by the kitchen table, Potter by her side. Potter's face flames up as soon as he sees me enter, and Granger has to stuff her face with toast to keep from laughing out loud.

Suddenly I have no appetite. Still, I refuse letting a pathetic Mudblood get the best of me.

"How are you this morning, Malfoy?" Granger enquires, hiding her grin behind her cup of tea.

I force a friendly smile upon my face as I take a seat by the table. "Just fine, thank you," I respond curtly, reaching for the teapot.

Granger opens her mouth to speak, but Potter cuts her off.

"Mr Weasley is home!" he exclaims loudly, almost flying out of his seat in his hurry to prevent Granger's next, no doubt very embarrassing, comment.

"Oh really?" I state, displaying an interest far beyond the natural. "Where is he?"

Potter lets out a humorous huff. "Mrs Weasley made him take his breakfast out in the backyard." He laughs, flashing a bright smile. "She says he needs the fresh air. He wasn't too happy about it."

I let out a chuckle, trying to ignore Granger's smug grin as she observes Potter and me in silence. God, she's almost worse than the twins! At least they are straightforward about their implications. I can't even deny her insinuations with my dignity intact, because she hasn't voiced any!

_Insufferable little twit. I dare say that if she had chosen to refine that part of her character back in the day, she could have gone far in Slytherin. _

I would much like to voice my thoughts about the Gryffindor know-it-all, but a certain conversation I took part in at a late hour last night comes to my mind. With some disappointment I remind myself that I promised to act as Potter's _friend_, and I guess that friends don't insult other friend's friends in so many words. Si I choose to keep my mouth shut and instead rise from the table.

As I push back my chair, Potter looks up. "Where are you going?"

I try to be irritated by his need to meddle in business that is solemnly mine, but somehow I can't bring myself to it. Instead I find myself forced to hold back a smile.

"Want to go for a fly?"

* * *

God, I've missed flying. To soar trough the air, the sky the limit, and not another human being as far as the eye can see.

Well, except for Malfoy. He is next to me constantly, on my tail, chasing me, whooshing just above my head, making a turn right in front of me so that it is all I can do to stay on course. And somehow nothing about that bothers me.

I look over at where he goes, down only yards above the ground. Then he makes a drastic turn upwards and he keeps going so far, far up that I think he will disappear behind the clouds.

I stare at him, mesmerised, for so long that I almost forget to steer my own broom. It's like seeing a completely different person that the usual Malfoy. He looks so light, so happy, so excruciatingly beautiful when he flies that I feel my heat contract in my chest.

I've never seen him look like this. When flying is no competition, when there is no war to win, when it is just me and him and the sky, only then can he look like that. I watch that unearthly creature make a turn in the air and approach me in a furious speed, stopping mid-air just when he is about to hit me.

"What's up, Potter?" he asks with a chuckle, unable to keep the silly grin off his face. "Did you forget how to use a broom?" He quirks a playful eyebrow before setting off again, this time rushing towards the ground in a furious speed.

"Shut up, Malfoy," I respond, but he is long gone and can't hear me anymore.

I watch him go in awe. He looks so relieved, so free, as if he hasn't go a care in the world. For once he seems to have no desire to look composed or poised, and there is something about this new, unfamiliar Malfoy that I can't take my eyes off.

And I realise in this perfect, ecstatic, painful moment that I love him. A silly thought, so fleeting and surreal, but so persistent. And before I even try to get rid of that thought, I realise that it's true.

I love him. I love Draco Malfoy.

The realisation would be painful enough without the knowledge of the bond. The constant shadow of that cursed thing, that thing which I can't control. That thing which I can only feel when it clutches my chest together, when it tugs at my ribs, when it makes me feel these ridiculous, impossible feelings.

I feel so used, so unreasonably angry for being cheated of something as basic as true feelings for someone. It's silly, really. I don't _want _to be in love with Malfoy. I'll be glad once this is over.

I just wish that I for once could have some control over something in my life.

I look after the blond, zigzagging just above the ground down below me. Then, to my surprise, he looks up, his eyes focusing on me. And he grins, a smile so open and beautiful and powerful that I fear it might throw me off my broom.

I feel my face return the expression, two bitter words escaping my lips for no one to hear.

"Shut up."

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

_As always, comments are very much appreciated and greatly adored._


	8. Obsession

**Chapter**** 8. Obsession  
**_  
Does he know?_

It's the question that passes through my brain every other minute, the question that I try to tune out and ignore and whatnot so that perhaps he might not hear it when he reads my mind. But still its there, luring and lurking, in the back of my mind and on the tip of my tongue every second of the day.  
_  
Does he know I love him? _

I have no idea. He doesn't look at me strangely, at least not more strangely than he usually does. If he knew, he would, wouldn't he? If possible, he wouldn't even be near me.

Then there is the other possibility. The possibility I scarcely dare to think about, for more reasons than one.  
_  
Could he love me back?_

In spite of myself, the thought awakens silly sparks of hope within me. And at the same time, I feel dread and disgust seething in the pit of my stomach. It would be only logical, really. If the bond makes me feel like this, then it should do the same for Malfoy.

But I wouldn't know, would I? I can't read his mind.

"More Shepherd's Pie, Harry?"

I look up with a disoriented expression, meeting Mrs Weasley's questioning gaze. "Sure," I state unevenly, swallowing loudly. "Thank you."

I turn my head to look at Malfoy who sits beside me as usual, and is currently involved in a heated conversation with Mr Weasley about electric fridges. A strange topic as Malfoy tries to understand how they work and Mr Weasley tries to explain it, while he himself actually has no idea.

"Are you quite alright, Harry?" Mrs Weasley asks, once more awakening me from my reverie. Her question causes Malfoy to look over at me, raising a concerned eyebrow. I feel a lump building in my throat as I meet his gaze, and hurry to look away and answer Mrs Weasley.

"I'm fine," I say lightly, forcing a small smile onto my face. "I just didn't sleep all that well last night." I rub my eye with my knuckle for effect until I begin to see stars.

"Oh," Mr Weasley says, while receiving seconds from his wife. "Is the ghoul in the attic bothering you?"

"No, it's fine." I shrug. "Perhaps I'd just had too much coffee." I smile again and proceed to scoop huge forkfuls of Shepherd's Pie into my mouth. Everyone else seems to let it go, except for Malfoy, who is still staring at me with a peculiar expression. I ignore him and turn to Mrs Weasley again.

"Are Fred and George at the store?"

The Weasley matron lets out a frustrated sigh as she again takes her seat at the table. "I don't understand those two. They spend their days inventing trick potions and prank items while they could be doing something useful." She huffs again, and I hurry to stuff my face with the Shepherd's Pie so that I won't have to come up with a nice diplomatic response.

Fortunately, Mr Weasley comes to my rescue.

"Come now, Molly," he says, interrupting his conversation with Malfoy. "They're doing what they love and making good money doing it. What's wrong with that?" Mr Weasley smiles, an expression that looks almost impish. I have an inkling from whom the twins have inherited their mischievous disposition.

Mrs Weasley only frowns, knowing her husband to be perfectly right and not liking that one bit. "I still think they should get a real job before they run off buying apartments," she mutters, voicing the real issue.

Mr Weasley smiles comfortingly at his wife, knowing her to feel very strongly about the last of her children moving out and leaving her. "They're not leaving for another month," he says, and everyone in the room knows what he means: During that time Mrs Weasley will remember why her prankster sons drive her insane most of the time and will most likely be relieved once they're gone.

I notice some movement from the corner of my eye, and turn to see Malfoy getting up from his seat.

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley," he says, his voice filed with strangely genuine warmth. I have a hard time getting used to him being courteous to the Weasleys. "Dinner was delicious."

I imagine I can almost see Mrs Weasley blushing as she responds. "No reason to thank me, dear," she gushes, smiling widely. "I'm so pleased that you enjoyed it!"

Malfoy nods, a small smile still playing on his lips, as he rises from his seat to clean his plate from the table. As he places the empty plate on the kitchen counter he turns to look at me expectantly, and without a seconds thought I push my chair back and stand up.

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley," I echo Malfoy's statement, also cleaning my plate and glass from the table. Neither Mr nor Mrs Weasley makes a comment of me following Malfoy's movements. It makes me a little uncomfortable to know that everyone has grown so used to seeing us together that they no longer find it peculiar. On the other hand, it's much easier to function somewhat normally knowing that no one is observing your every move.

I follow Malfoy out into the living room, where we usually spend time after dinner, playing chess or doing something else equally inane. But today Malfoy simply takes a seat in one of the armchairs, proceeding to observe me closely as I seat myself on the couch. He doesn't say a word.

"What is it?" I ask when the silence has drawn out for far too long than is normal, even for the two of us. Malfoy stares at me silently for another moment before he finally moves to speak.

"What's wrong?" he asks, still staring at me intensely. I fidget uncomfortably under his gaze.

"What are you on about?" I ask innocently, feigning ignorance. It proves to be quite useless.

"I know that something's up," Malfoy states harshly, not even slightly indulging my pretence.

"Nothing's up," I respond quickly. Too quickly. Malfoy narrows his eyes, his gaze intensifying. I feel shivers travelling down my spine as I realise what he is doing.

"Stop trying to read my mind!" I exclaim in horror, crossing my arms across my chest as if any physical movement will help against Malfoy's mental attack.

Malfoy sneers at me. "I wouldn't have to if you would just tell me what's going on with you."

He doesn't yell at me, he doesn't even raise his voice. But his frustration is evident, his voice is so heavily laced with a desperate demand that it makes me feel as if I'm suffocating. The bond itself is working through him, clamouring me to respond, to tell him –

"There's nothing to tell," I insist, reminding myself furiously of my own conscious mind, of my own will.

_Come on, Harry. Only ten days left. You'll get through this!_

Malfoy stares at me in disbelief, his lower lip twisting into a frustrated sneer. "Don't pull that shit with me," he snarls, rising from his seat and clenching his fists in anger. "I know that you're lying. It's so plain on your face that I would know it even if I couldn't read any part of your mind!"

I feel unreasonably offended by his insult, even as I know that it is probably the last thing I should be worried about. I too rise from my seat, returning Malfoy's vicious expression as best as I can. "Fuck off, Malfoy."

I don't know if it's my words or the calculated rage with which I delivered them, but Malfoy looks as if he's been hit. He doesn't even protest as I turn on my heels and head for the door, my loud steps unrealistically loud in the silent room.

* * *

"Fuck off, Malfoy," he sneered with cold disdain before marching out through the door. Hours later, lying in my bed, I still can't shake those words from my mind.

I don't even really know why we're fighting. But I know that as our relationship has crown more comfortable, it has also grown tenser. The air is constantly loaded with electricity, and it has nowhere to go, so it erupts through stupid fights like this one. And I can do nothing but feel furious.

Fuck off, Malfoy.

The words sound through my head again and again where I lie, staring dumbly out into space. _Well, fuck him_! I think, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists until I feel my nails digging in to my palms. _Fuck all of this!_

Potter is driving me insane. For the last week he has behaved more strangely than ever. And the most peculiar thing is that he has actually been able to hide his feelings from me. In the past his thoughts have been perhaps muddy or disoriented, but always _there_. Now, even as I _try_ to hear them, I can't. Which only makes me more worried about the content.

I shouldn't care. My only concern should be getting through each day without getting myself into any trouble. My only concern should be surviving these 40 days and getting on with my life.

But try as I may, Potter is impossible to ignore. Especially as his anxiety circles my brain each and every minute of the day. Figuring him out goes beyond simple curiosity, it's a _need_ I possess to know what he is thinking.

Now he has barricaded himself in his room, anxious and enraged. His feelings radiate to me though the house, depriving me from any possible calm or peace. There are no words, no explanations. Just feelings of rage, impossible frustration –

And then the last feeling I want him to feel.

I sense Potter moving around, circling his rooms a couple of times before his mind turns decisive. He walks through the halls of the house until he reaches the bathroom. In horror I see the images flash before my eyes as he removes his clothes quickly and steps beneath the shower. I feel the touch as he moves a trembling hand over his own chest and down his stomach, and the sensation is rapidly building up pressure in my trousers. As he wraps a hand around himself I feel as if that hand is touching me, and I cannot help the gasp that escapes me in surprise. As the feeling intensifies I see images appear before me, but I soon realise that these have nothing to do with reality. In a fuzzy vision of a person that I soon realise to be myself, leaning against a dark wall, completely naked and stoking myself. It dawns on me that the vision is conjured by Potter himself, and the thought of him bringing himself off to this mental image is as impossibly arousing as it is disturbing.

For a moment I fight to stay in my bed, to remove myself from Potter's mind and ignore what I know to be happening in that bathroom right this moment. But I can feel everything that Potter is doing, I can feel every touch on his body on my own, and knowing that he is doing all that while thinking of me just makes it that much harder to ignore.

In the end, in spite of my best efforts to resist, going to him is no choice. My body makes the decision for me and I step out of bed, walking out of the room and descending the stairs without really paying much mind to what I am doing. It is only when I burst into the bathroom that it dawns on me just what I am doing.

Potter is standing in the shower, the water rushing down over his olive skin and dangerously highlighting his muscles. His wet hair has fallen down over his eyes, and his right hand is wrapped around his cock as he supports himself against the wall with his left arm. As I step into the room he looks up in shock, his eyes wide as saucers. His mouth falls open and he takes a staggered step to keep his balance, but he doesn't seem to have the conscience of mind to remove his hand from around his prick. It is only when I let the door fall shut behind me that Potter is startled from his compromising position.

He yells out and reaches out for a towel, wrapping it around his waist in a desperate attempt to cover himself. "What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaims in outrage, his eyes blazing with fury and embarrassment. I look straight into his fiery eyes and wait for some sort of sensible answer to cross my lips. None does, because there is none.

Why am I here? God knows, it is all because of the bond. I find neither reason nor sense in half of my actions or feelings these days. All I am nowadays are confused emotions and desires which I cannot control nor understand. It is such emotions that have made me pursue Potter, bringing me here and left me to stare dumbly at where he is now standing, half-clad and oh, so enthralling in his fury. I have never felt so alienated from myself in my entire life.

Potter keeps staring at me, his breathing noticeably quick and shallow where he stands, expecting me to move in one direction or the other. I try to force myself to move back out through the door, but something keeps me locked in place. Whether it is the look in Potter's eyes, my near-painful arousal, or the fact that I do not enjoy embarrassing myself thus for no reason , but I find it impossible to leave the room.

It seems that I've hesitated too long. Potter takes a step forward, holding on to the towel for dear life. He moves to step past me, but I refuse to break eye contact, and he freezes in his steps, looking nothing less than terrified. I keep staring at him, seconds drawing out to minutes as I keep staring into the abyss of his eyes.

Finally Potter opens his mouth to speak. "What do you want?" He stares at me with wide eyes, his voice trembling with trepidation, and no doubt, suppressed arousal.

I move to answer, but change my mind, ending up opening and closing my mind like a goldfish. What do I want? To have the bond removed. To get rid of these insane, irrational feelings. To move on with my life and forget that these past weeks ever happened.

But in this moment, what I want more than anything, is Potter.

So I lean forward, trapping Potter between myself and the bathroom wall. I stare at him silently for five hopeless seconds, feeling as though I could be knocked over any minute by the feelings of desire, confusion and simple need that radiates between us. Finding it impossible to do anything but, I lean in to press my lips against Potter's.

There is no excuse, no explanation for my behaviour. But Potter doesn't seem to need one. He responds to my kiss with a furiousness I have never felt from anyone, throwing his arms around my neck and pulling me towards him violently. His erection presses against mine, and as I wriggle my hips against his I realise that the only thing keeping his towel in place right now is me.

"I felt you," I whisper against his lips, wondering when I decided to speak. But I find that once I have begun, it is very hard to stop.

"I felt your hands when you touched yourself," I say huskily, completely losing myself in the absurdity of this moment as I wrap an arm around Potter's waist while I tug the towel away with the other. He gasps as the bare skin of his cock comes in contact with the rough fabric of my jeans, and I feel a wicked grin appear on my face as I move to nibble at his throat.

"I saw you," I murmur, running a hand down Potter's back, my nails digging into his skin. I pull away enough to see him staring at me, his face a glorious mixture of confusion and arousal. My smirk widens. "I saw you thinking of me."

Potter's cheeks flame up instantly, and I chuckle lightly at his humiliation. But teasing him is a torture to me too, and when he moves to tug at my shirt I make no move to resist. Potter tugs the garment over my head, tossing it to the wet floor before he proceeds to kiss me senseless. I shudder as the cool air touches my skin, and feel Potter smirk against my lips, regaining some of his lost confidence. He reaches down to tug at the top of my jeans, unbuttoning the buttons while he steps to the side and pulls me with him. He guides us beneath the shower, where the water is still running and now wetting us both completely. I fail to give a damn as my jeans fall down into a heap on the wet floor by my feet, because all I can think about is Potter's naked body pressed against mine, his hot, wet skin beneath my palms, his breath against my lips.

I guide a hand down to his cock, and he lets out a guttural groan as my fingers wrap around the pulsing flesh. The wicked sneer on my face is washed away as Potter reciprocates. A shudder goes through my body as I re-experience the touch I felt before, now ten times more powerful because this time it is _real_, not a mere phantom felt through the bond. With the touch a pulse of electricity hits my heart, destroying the discomfort of the bond while at the same time making the longing that much harder. Gasping I press myself against Potter, aching for more of this physical perfection that I feel.

Potter takes me in with open arms, leaning back against the tile wall and closing his hand around my chin as he moves to intensify the kiss. As the water beats down my back I drown in his velvety mouth, thinking that with his hands on me I won't be able to last a minute. It seems that Potter feels the same way because it is not long before he is writhing and gasping against me, his breaths escaping him in shallow puffs.

With a final squeeze of my fingers I manage to bring him over the edge mere seconds before I feel my own restraint give and I come, my seed exploding over both myself and Potter and mixing with his.

I stand leaning against him for a long minute, breathing heavily against the skin of his neck as I keep him trapped against the wall. As the water runs over our cooling bodies, washing away the evidence of our passion, I feel myself losing something else along the way. I start to realise the gravity of our deed, while at the same time I find myself forced to face the fact that this is evidently no longer something we can deny.

Sighing deeply, I take a step back to look Potter in the eye. He looks surprisingly sombre and serious, not as hysterical as I'd expected him to be. Then a tentative smile finds its way onto his lips, and there is a twinkle in his emerald eyes as he grins at me.

"Some friendship we have," he states, barely making it through the entire sentence before he bursts out in uncontrollable, bitter laughter.

In spite of the horror I feel, something resembling a smile emerges on my face as I watch the hysterical Gryffindor.

So much for his seriousness.

* * *

**TBC**

_As always, comments are greatly appreciated. _


	9. Dear Catastrophe

_I'm ashamed to say that posting this chapter has taken a very long time. Four months, to be exact. I apologize for that. But now that it is finally posted, I hope you all enjoy it, and as always reviews are much appreciated and adored._

xx  
_the Nix_

* * *

**Chapter 9. Dear Catastrophe**

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckedy, fuck, fuck!_

"Swearing won't help, you know," Potter says as he pulls on his T-shirt. I turn to sneer at him before I realise that I didn't say anything out loud.

"Get the fuck out of my head!" I hiss, forced to clench my fists as I fight the urge to punch Potter. He startles, and I realise that he heard that thought too. Gritting my teeth, I turn to reach for my jeans that are lying in a heap on the floor, completely soaked.

I know this isn't Potter's fault. At least not more than it is mine. But it's so much easier to yell at someone else for their stupidity.

I hear a flopping sound behind me as Potter steps anxiously from one foot onto the other on the wet floor. "What are we going to do?" he asks.

"Quiet!" I snap, sneering at him. "I'm trying to think!"

I don't know what else to answer him, so I simply remain silent, trying to shimmy into the cold and wet jeans. What _can _we do?

Potter stays quiet for almost thirty seconds. Granted, it's an admirable achievement for a hot headed Gryffindor like him.

"Did it—" he cuts himself off, avoiding my gaze by staring stubbornly at the floor. Murmuring something inaudible under his breath, he then looks up with a worried crease between his brows. He takes a deep breath. "Is the bond now... consummated?" he asks weakly, barely able to hold my gaze.

Unable to currently use my energy for coming up with a more appropriate reaction, all I can do is release a loud, mirthless chuckle. "Oh honestly, Potter...!"

When he is still staring at me in confusion, I huff at him and raise an eyebrow. "No, Potter. What we did does _not _constitute as consummating the bond."

"Really?"

I can feel the tension being released from him through the bond, at the same time as he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Thank God...!"

"What?" I explode, glaring at Potter. His eyes shoot open immediately; he probably felt my rage through the bond. Darn it.

"This is no time to thank— whomever it was that you were thanking!" I hiss, running a hand through my wet hair in frustration. "The fact that we didn't actually _consummate_ the bond doesn't make our situation any less serious!" I stare at Potter, breathing heavily and cursing the stupid twit for... well, being stupid.

Potter just shrugs. "I know, we messed up. But isn't—"

"No," I interrupt, taking a threatening step closer to Potter. "We didn't 'mess up'. We completely and utterly fucked up!" I feel myself losing control, and take a step back to gain some distance, to regain my trademark calm.

"Have you—" I trail off, pinching the brink of my nose as I try to manage a single clear thought. "Have you _any_ idea of what a close call that was?" I ask, meeting Potter's affronted gaze. Before he has time to answer, I continue.

"Have you any idea of what it means to actually be bonded? Of how serious this really is?"

I mean to sound fierce, but the words come out sounding more like a plea. I turn away from Potter, but I can still feel his gaze burning on my skin, I can feel his emotions invading my brain He feels sorry for me. He wants to comfort me. He believes that if he takes just one step closer, if he puts his arms around me, holds me close, that all will be alright.

When he finally speaks, it is in a low, calming tone. "We only have seven days left. One week, Draco! It's practically over," he says, his voice reaching a perky and somewhat hysterical high at the last word. I long to raise my head and look at him, but I nail my gaze to the wall in front of me. Because I know that if I look him in the eye, my defences will be overcome by the desperate, forlorn expression that I _know_ is on his face, and I will go to him. The bond be damned.

But he doesn't move, and I don't move, and the moment passes. Thankfully.

Finally, I take in a deep breath. "We just need to take some distance and stay out of each other's way until then."

Potter nods slowly. "Yeah, I guess so."

I still cannot look him in the eye. "And we cannot be together, just the two of us. _Ever_."

Potter nods again, once, this time silently.

I stand immobile for exactly five seconds before I finally manage to will my legs to move, and I rush out trough the bathroom door without looking back.

And I wonder fleetingly why it feels as if I've left something important behind.

* * *

Breakfast has never been this awkward.

Malfoy arrives only minutes after me, but sits down at the opposite end of the table. He calls out a general good morning, smiles stiffly at Mrs Weasley and hurriedly buried himself in today's copy of the _Daily Prophet_, not even looking me in the eye once. Mrs. Weasley serves us both some toast, and I can barely get down a single bite.

The twins' entry a while later doesn't exactly lighten the mood, either. George has barely made it through the door before he remarks on our unusual seating arrangement.

"What's this?" he asks, looking from me to Malfoy and back again with a wicked grin. "Did you two have a lovers spat or something?"

The comment brings forth a roaring laugh from both twins, a noise that only grows worse as they see my flustered face. I gaze cautiously towards Malfoy and to my shock he is actually looking back at me, for the first time this morning. But his gaze betrays nothing but cool observation, and he has closed off all his emotions that I had access to during that brief, ecstatic moment last night. Slowly he turns away, hiding again behind his paper.

How Malfoy manages to stay so calm, so distant even in this situation, I'll never know. I have to concentrate to keep myself in check every minute, every _second_ of the entire day so that I won't run after him when he exits the room, so that I won't sit down next to him at the dinner table, so that I won't call out to offer him my fan mail chocolates. But he just sits there, relaxed in his chair, making brief and somewhat uncomfortable conversation with Mr and Mrs Weasley, his eyes still as iron and his lips occasionally curling up in a tiny polite smile. There is no sign of stress or exertion. It's infuriating.

For three days he goes on acting as if I'm not even in the same room, and I go on trying to pretend that I don't give a rat's ass. But every time his gaze passes over me like I'm not even there, every time he speaks and it's not directed at me, I feel a painful sting in my chest. I come to realise that the true curse of the bond is not the physical pain it causes when one's mate isn't around. It's the knowledge that I have these insane, excruciating feelings of love that aren't even my own. They're not _real_. And still, I feel my heart sigh every time he walks past me. It's completely ridiculous. And it's killing me.

If I knew that the suffering was mutual, I could maybe cope better with it. If I could look into his eyes and see that he is struggling as much as I am, then maybe I wouldn't feel this bad, this hopeless, this... lonely.

It is only a question of time before I can't stand it anymore.

"Mrs Weasley, have you seen Draco?" I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible as I stand in her kitchen, fidgeting from one leg to another.

Mrs Weasley looks up in surprise from the pot she is stirring. "Oh, I think he went flying, not long ago," she says, looking somewhat contemplative. "I was surprised when he went alone," she continues, glancing at me with an indication that she would like an explanation for why I didn't go with him.

I can only smile forcedly as I move to slip out through the kitchen door. "Well, I'm going now," I murmur, and close the door behind me before Mrs Weasley has time to ask any more questions.

I am already making my way through the back garden when I spot a lonely broomstick by the wall. Hesitating for a second, I walk back and grab the broom, hurrying on my way before I have time to change my mind. As I walk over the dark green moor I feel my anger growing, flaming up from irritation to full-grown rage. _How can he do this?_ I ask myself. How can he pretend that nothing is wrong, act as if he is merely unfortunate enough to have ended up on vacation with the Golden Boy and the Weasleys?

As I keep walking, I begin to feel how the bond's hold is slowly loosening. Slowly but surely I start to feel like I can breathe better, and the feeling gives me a kick of anticipation mixed with desperation. It takes me a moment to realise that I've started running. I trip and fall on the uneven ground as I make my way in an angry haze, so when I finally reach the Quidditch field I'm completely at loss of breath. Breathing heavily I look out over the field, and my heart makes a tiny jump when I spot the dark-clad figure zic-zacing over the high, golden grass. I run out into the field, letting the broom fall into the grass as I cup my hands around my mouth and shout:

"Malfoy!"

I don't know if he heard me or simply felt my presence, but he looks over his shoulder and his eyes meet mine. There is a moment of surprise and something indefinable in his eyes, but within seconds it is replaced by the cold, indifferent Malfoy mask. He turns his head back and continues forward down the field, completely ignoring my presence.

A really bad move, given that he is able to feel my enraged state of mind.

Within seconds I've thrown myself on the broomstick and risen from the ground. Malfoy is not flying at full speed, and so I'm quickly gaining on him. Finally, when I am only a few yards from him, he must've felt my presence, because he looks back over his shoulder. When he sees me, he immediately increases his speed, trying to escape from me.

"Wait, you bastard!" I yell, trying desperately to keep up with him.

"Leave me alone, Potter!" he shouts, making a sharp turn to the left in attempt to shake me off his tail.

And so it continues, this ridiculous game of tag. Neither of us knows quite how we wound up playing it, or what will happen when it ends. It's completely ludicrous: he tries to escape from me, yet he has nowhere to go. I try to catch him, to force him to acknowledge my existence, yet I have no idea whatsoever what to say to him. But I am way too angry to let him dismiss me again, and he is way too stubborn to face me.

I never really planned what I would do when I got close enough to him, though. So when he finally makes the mistake of letting me get too close before he ducks, I don't think. I just jump and tackle him by his waist. Not a thoroughly thought-trough move, I realise halfway through the motion, as we are both eight feet up in the air. But it's too late to regret anything as we are both falling through the air, our brooms continuing their way straight ahead towards the forest.

I fall hard onto my back in the grass, my yell silenced as the air is knocked out of me violently. I can hear a loud groan and movement beside me, and as I look up I see Malfoy sitting a couple of feet from me, his right hand cradling his head.

"What the—?" he begins, before he, too, looks up and sees me. For a second he just stares at me, his eyes wide in surprise and disbelief, and for a moment I am at odds with myself on whether I should still be mad, apologetic, or just embarrassed.

But before I have time to decide, Malfoy makes the decision for me.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Potter?" he roars, sneering at me viciously. With a groan he rises up from the ground, trying to brush the dust and dirt off his clothes.

My rage is immediately awakened anew.

"What am _I_ doing?" I repeat, immediately infuriated. I fly to my feet, clenching my fists in anger. "What do _you_ think you're doing, ignoring me completely—"

"We talked about this," Malfoy hurries to interrupt me. "We decided we should take some distance—"

"Yes, _distance!_" I exclaim, taking a staggering step forward. "But you're acting like I don't even exist! You and I—"

Malfoy lets out an irritated huff. "You and I, _nothing!_" he says spitefully, his eyes cold as steel. "Excuse me if I'm trying to consider both of our _futures_ instead of your pathetic sentimentality."

I feel my face burn with anger and embarrassment. "You still wouldn't have to act like a complete asshole!"

Malfoy snorts. "Well, what else is new?" An irritated, almost animalistic grunt escapes him, and he runs a dusty hand through his hair in frustration. "Why do you even _care?_"

"Because I'm fucking in love with you!"

It takes a second before it dawns on me that I spoke out loud. When the reality sets in, I feel my heart go cold. Malfoy is staring at me with wide, almost frightful eyes, his expression completely unreadable. I scarcely dare to keep looking at him, but I cannot bring myself to look away. The silence seems to draw on forever.

Finally Malfoy nods almost imperceptibly, more to himself than to me, his lips drawn in a thin line.

"Then that's your loss."

With that, he walks away, leaving me to stand alone in the field, immobilized by the pain gathering in my chest.

* * *

**TBC**


	10. Paper Moon

**Chapter 10. Paper Moon  
**  
He acts as if nothing happened. He doesn't run away from me, and he makes brief but impersonal conversation with me whenever etiquette demands it. He doesn't look right through me as he has done throughout the past four days.

Maybe I should be relieved that he doesn't go out of his way to avoid me anymore. But I know what his behavior really means: he doesn't care. He doesn't care enough to try to stay away anymore.

I begin to give up all hope that what I feel for Malfoy is mutual. If it was, wouldn't I have felt something through the bond? Wouldn't he have given me at least a hint of it last night, instead of letting me make a complete asshole of myself? Wouldn't even he, Mr Collected, find himself occasionally losing control and give me some sign that I'm not completely alone in this?

Because that is precisely what I'm starting to believe that I am. Alone. Maybe Malfoy made a mistake when forming the bond? Maybe somehow I ended up getting the larger part of the 'emotions'-deal, and Malfoy only got some brief feelings mildly resembling affection and lust?

I try to laugh at myself, tell me that my paranoia is completely ridiculous. But how can I believe that, when all the evidence to the contrary is around me all the time, sitting near me at the dinner table, reading the paper in the living room?

I try to distract myself, playing chess with the twins, explaining diverse Muggle items to Mr Weasley. I even get pulled in a discussion about my future with Hermione, but I can't even focus on that. I can't pretend to care about what I want to do with the rest of my life, when the only person I can currently think about would rather want me dead than near him.

Even if they are fake, I cannot shut down my feelings for even a second.

Eventually, at the end of the day, I just end up in my room. Lying on my bed and staring up at the cracked ceiling, I desperately try to ignore the constant, burning tug of the bond in my chest. I try to sleep but find that I can't; with Malfoy still down in the living room, the bond is agitated from the distance and I am unable to get any rest. I can do nothing but lay there, listening to the chimes of the grandmother clock from below, sounding to me as the clock strikes seven thirty…eight… eight thirty… nine… nine thirty.

After what seems like an eternity, the clock finally strikes ten, and I feel a shift in the bond as Malfoy starts moving downstairs. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes I can not only feel but also hear him walking up the stairs. For a brief second I believe I can hear the sound of his footsteps seize in the corridor outside my room, as if he is hesitating, and my heart immediately starts racing with hope. But the moment passes, and as I hear him ascend the stairs to the third floor, I turn onto my side, my back at the door, and curse myself for being so foolish. Still, I cannot bring myself to close my eyes before I know that Malfoy has lied down in his own bed for the night. Only then can I take a deep breath and let sleep claim me.I find myself standing in a grand drawing room with purple walls. Massive chandeliers are hanging from the ceiling, and magnificent mirrors cover the entire East wall. It takes me a moment to realise that I'm in a dream again, a dream that isn't my own."You're a disappointment to me, Draco."

* * *

_He says it in such a cold way, his voice so tranquil and hard. There is no sign of any feeling at all. I hate that voice, more than anything in the world. And yet, I'd do anything to perfect that voice, that relaxed yet grand posture, that gracious flick of the wand even as he utters an Unforgiveable._

_I try not to make a single sound as the curse hits me, and for a moment I succeed. But gnawing through my lower lip, tasting the blood, it doesn't take long for me to lose myself in the pain. And I scream, I scream until my throat is raw._

_"How disappointing."_

_There is that word again. That word that I detest so much. And so does Father. Otherwise he wouldn't be so angry when he is forced to use it. It's not me that he hates, it's that word. It's that word that makes him able to pick up that wand and point it at me._

_He doesn't want me to be a disappointment. But I am, and it makes him furious._

_Then my vision goes blurry and the scene changes. The exquisite drawing room suddenly melts away, morphing into a field, stretching out endlessly before my eyes, covered with a yellowing grass. It looks like a golden sea, moving slowly with the wind._

_It's beautiful._

_"Because I'm fucking in love with you!"_

_Suddenly he stands before me, staring at me with those bright green eyes wide in fright, anger and expectation. But with each passing second that I stay silent they all flutter away, one at a time. Expectation lasts the longest, because he still thinks, he still hopes desperately that I will say it back to him. But I can't._

_I can't._

_Eventually the last flicker of hope disappears from his eyes, and I cannot stand to look at him any longer. I turn away; the pain in his expression is too much for me to bear._

_"Then that's your loss," I hear myself say, in that same hard, cool voice that I've heard Father use hundreds of times. And with that I walk away, his thoughts still bombarding me through the bond. Humiliation, confusion, longing. Disappointment._

_Father was right. I always was a disappointment, and I still am. I can't even handle this small matter without it blowing up in my face._

_I can't even tell Harry that I love him._

With that my eyes shoot open and my breath gets caught in my throat. I lay perfectly still for a long while, staring disbelievingly at the familiar cracks in the ceiling.

"That fucking bastard!"

_

* * *

_  
"You're acting like I don't even exist!" Potter exclaims, taking a staggering step forward. "You and I—"

I huff irritatedly, careful to hold my passive mask firmly in place. "You and I, _nothing!_" I say with as much spite as I can muster.

Nothing. No 'he and I', no 'we'. There is no _we_, and there never will be. _I_ had to make a hasty decision on the battle field. _I _had to be bonded to the most obnoxious little brat in the entire wizarding world. _I_ am the one forced to keep reminding him why we cannot give in to our ludicrous desires.

I am the one who has to hold it together, for both of our sakes.

"Excuse me if I'm trying to consider both of our_ futures_ instead of your pathetic sentimentality."Potter flushes red withanger and humiliation."You still wouldn't have to act like a complete asshole!"Oh yes, but I do. That's the only way to get through to him. The only way to ever make this horrible, _horrible _situation any better._  
_  
I snort. "Well, what else is new?" My frustration takes over for a second and I let out a grunt, running a dirty hair through my windblown hair. "Why do you even _care?_""Because I'm fucking in love with you!"For a minute, the world stands completely still. I can no longer keep myself in check but instead stare wide-eyed at Potter, completely stupefied. He looks back, as much in shock as I am, but at the same time waiting, _wanting_ me to respond, to do something besides just stand here. I can hear him screaming out to me through the bond, his entire soul demanding me to act.

But I can't do anything. Because Potter has now ruined everything.

He loves me. Of course he does. He's known it, and I've felt it for quite some time now, because he still hasn't learned how to control his emotions. But so far I've been able to pretend that I _don't_ know, pretend that I don't see it whenever he looks my way longingly. And for the past three days I've been able to take the distance, to always try to keep us separated, because I knew he could never oppose out loud.

But now he has ruined it. Now he knows that I know, and now I have to react appropriately.

Except that there is no 'appropriate' for this situation. It only means that I have to hurt him even more.

I avert my eyes from him, nodding softly as I stare out at the field without really seeing it. And the words pass my lips before I have to think about it._  
_  
"Then that's your loss."_  
_  
The completely right words for this situation. And the entirely wrong ones.  
_  
_With that, I walk away, determined not to look back as I feel his heart smashing to pieces alongside mine.

_

* * *

_

I stop pretending that Potter doesn't exist. I stop pointedly looking through him while he silently begs for me to meet his gaze. I stop ignoring the small moves he makes to make me notice him.

Instead I act completely neutral. I don't avoid a room because he happens to be there. I make polite small-talk with him now and again, of the same kind that I make with Granger and the twins. Inane small-talk of no real substance. And he knows it.

I thought it would make him feel a little better, but instead it seems to be making him act up even more than before. He is distracted, fidgety, and he can't keep a conversation going, not even with the Mudblood, for more than three minutes.

I know what he wants, but I can't give it to him. We can't pretend to be 'friends' again, we can't go back to the harmonious, almost comfortable coexistence we had, not after all that has happened.

We can't risk letting what happened happen again.

And so I go to bed in the evening, trying desperately to think of how I can possibly keep on keeping my distance, conversing with him in a polite, impersonal manner, and trying to pretend that I can't feel his anguish through the bond.

Trying to pretend that I can't feel my own.

_

* * *

_

"How _dare _you?"

I am suddenly shook wide awake by a heated flash of anger, and the physical presence of someone standing in my room, yelling.

"What the hell…?" I mutter, opening my eyes slowly and looking up at the idiot. "Potter, what the—"

"How dare you?" he repeats, towering above me in his rage, his fists clenched white and his jaw flexing as he bites his teeth together. "How dare you not tell me that you love me?"

_What a ridiculous-sounding question,_ is the first thought that my sleep-muddled brain can progress. _Oh, shit,_ is the second.

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" I ask slowly, pretending to be ignorant but even myself knowing that I am failing.

"Your dream," Potter says simply.

I stare at him stupidly for a moment, my mind completely blank and apparently unable to take in any new information. "My dream…?" I repeat dumbly, sitting up in the bed and rubbing one eye with my knuckle. "I don't…"

Then suddenly the meaning of his words hits me, and I find myself flying off the bed, gawking at him like a goldfish. "Bloody—!" I exclaim, feeling a hot red flush of anger and embarrassment starting to spread over my nose. "What the fuck were you doing in my dream, Potter?"

Potter seems taken aback for a second, before he seems to refuel his own fury. "We're not talking about that now! _Now_ we're talking about what I _saw _in your dream!"

Unable to control myself, I snort at him. "Well, what _did_ you see then?" I enquire snarkily, wondering quietly if I'm just _asking_ for trouble.

Potter looks at me quietly for a second, some of his anger seeming to melt off. He licks his lips anxiously. "You were with Lucius," he begins carefully, peering under his brow for my reaction. I can only stare at him in befuddled silence.

When I don't speak, he hurries to continue. "I saw you, and I _felt _you. I felt everything you felt, heard everything you thought…" He looks at me, almost apologetic, and I hate him for it.

"Then the scene changed, and it was the two of us, in the field…" he trails off again, swallowing loudly. "And I know now what you didn't say to me then."

_He knows._

"You love me."

"Don't be ridiculous," I respond quickly. Too quickly.

A small smile spreads on his face, and he takes a step closer. "You love me."

"Stop it, Potter," I huff, I suspect not too convincingly. "You're making a fool of yourself.

"No." He takes another step forward, and there is that alluring smile again. "No."

Another step, and he is standing right in front of me. Before I even have the time to realise what is happening, he has put his hands on the sides of my face and pulled me to him. I pull away before our lips have time to meet properly, but he holds me in an iron grip, resting his forehead against mine as he chuckles:

"You love me," he repeats in a whisper, smiling still as he presses our lips together again. With the touch of our lips I feel as if the world has stopped turning, as if time has stopped here and now, as if every second is an hour and still passes by much too quickly. The bond has released its hold around my chest, and for the first time in a long time I feel like I can breathe properly. And what I breathe in is the scent of Potter, that smell of musk and cinnamon and something indefinable that I just can't seem to get enough of.

But eventually, it might be an hour or three seconds later, I feel my consciousness slowly return, and I force myself to pull away.

This time Potter lets me go, but the intensity of his gaze nails me to the floor. Slowly but surely that small, incredibly happy and at the same time immensely sad smile spreads on his face. And in that moment, looking into the green abyss of his eyes, I'm certain he can read every thought in my brain.

"You _do_ love me."

The notion is so stupid, so ridiculous, so surreal and completely undeniable that I can only answer with a mirthless bark of laughter.

"Of course I do," I say bitterly. Potter looks at me with wide eyes, his surprise at my honesty only surpassed by his confusion.

"Of course I love you. As I've told you before, the bond works both ways."

A crease forms between Potter's eyebrows. "Yes, but—"

"And as such," I interrupt him coldly, turning away to stare at a non-existence spot in the distance. "that 'love' will disappear for both of us as soon as this temporary bond fades."

Potter stares at me in silence, knowing what I've said to be true but not wanting to believe it.

_That makes two of us, _I think to myself, before I have the presence of mind to stop it. I shake my head, trying desperately to rid myself of such foolish thoughts.

I gaze up at Potter, trying desperately to tell myself that the sadness I see in his eyes most definitely isn't reflected in my own.

"Let's not fool ourselves into thinking this will last past the day after tomorrow."

_

* * *

_**TBC**


End file.
